


Lado Sur Siempre

by cherrybomb14



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Gay Sex, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybomb14/pseuds/cherrybomb14
Summary: Mickey Milkovich, a lead partner in Solano Mexican drug cartel, and Ian Gallagher, Federal Agent who was hired to arrest and take down notorious druglords.He knew they were never meant to be...
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 30
Kudos: 78





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago I was laying in bed after a few too many alcoholic beverages, and this idea popped in my head... It's been developing ever since!  
> It takes place 12 years after Ian leaves Mickey at the border. Ian never went to jail like he did in S9.  
> It also switches POV between both Ian & Mickey.  
> This a SLOW BURN. Definitely a build-up story that takes time and patience, but it’ll be so worth it in the end.  
> This story will be broken up into three parts (I think) and will be about 22 chapters long.  
> Each chapter is named after a Tarot card belonging to the Major Arcana. There are no specific meaning to the titles, other than I despise thinking of chapter names 😅  
> You’ll notice the story has quite a few plot holes, and there’s definitely some parts where you’ll find yourself going “Why didn’t he just do this?” or “Why is he doing that when he could have just done it this way?”  
> After reading it from start to finish, I’m aware of that, but try to let the practicality thoughts subside and enjoy the ride! I learned most of my knowledge about cartels from Sons of Anarchy, Breaking Bad and google lol so I am no expert by any means, but I put my heart into this story!

**Part One**

**  
**

Mickey watched through the phone screen; his damp palm was leaking sweat onto it as his thumb hovered over the record button. 

He was waiting for his cue. 

He was trembling, and he bit his lip so hard he could taste the salted blood. He winced at the sound of one of the children screaming for her life as Cut approached her father. He was tied to a beam from the ceiling, screaming desperately for help. 

His wife and son huddled together in the corner; their heads tucked in their arms to shield themselves from what was about to happen next. You could hear their muffled, helpless cries and it made Mickey’s gut wrench. 

Ricardo gave him his que, a pat to the chest with his AK. 

He frantically clicked record, making sure to get the best camera quality possible while zooming in closer on Cut. He was hissing Spanish in Carlos’ ear, and Mickey could only pick up a few words… 

_Venganza… La Muerte… El destino…_

Revenge, death and fate. 

Mickey braced himself, still clenching the phone and trying his best not to allow his shaking to affect the video. Cut said a few more sentences before he raised his blade to Carlos’ neck, him and the rest of his family now screaming for their lives. A few more desperate seconds passed until there was a nauseating sound of splitting flesh, followed by a spew of blood which pooled on the floor. The remaining family members bawled in horror as Cut came closer to them, clicking his teeth while he muttered something in their ears. 

He hit the red record button, concluding the video. He shoved the phone in his pocket, waiting for Cut to dismiss him. A few other inside members came in from the doorway to depose of the body. It was an organized murder, thought-out and planned from start to finish. It was detailed, sick, and gruesome. 

It was then that Mickey questioned everything that got him here: Taking off to Mexico nearly 12 years ago, getting on with the cartel, working for Cut… 

He observed him wiping some of the blood spatter off from across his neck. He walked towards Mickey, a slow and mellow step. His neat, slicked-back ponytail was untouched, still perfect. 

“Did you send it?” He asked, spitting a glob of saliva on the floor. 

Mickey nodded, trying extremely hard to not let his nerves be noticeable. “Yeah. It just sent.” 

“Good. Destroy the phone. Torres knows the score now. We’ve got Gallegos protection now.” Cut explained, pulling a glass pipe from his jeans. 

“Torres knows better than to retaliate. He has word we’ve got Gallegos on our side now.” Mickey agreed, reaching for the cigarette tucked in his ear. “Our point is made. It was the right move.” 

Cut nodded in approval, lighting up his glass bubble and twisting it. He ordered Ricardo to hand him the leather bag over his shoulder. He tossed it to Mickey with an alarming force. “There’s eight. Need it moved by Monday night. Keep 5% and I’ll have more for you next week.” 

Mickey took the bag eagerly, lighting his cigarette before exiting. “Got it.” 

He left the house with the terrified wife and children still distraught inside, but he did everything in his power to block it out, erasing the thought from his mind completely. He galloped down the porch stairs, running to the L station just in time to catch the last one. The evening air was still hot from the summer sun, so his dark purple tank-top and plaid black shorts were a good pick as far as attire was concerned. 

He waited at the station for about five minutes, lighting a joint and playing a game of solitaire on his phone. He had a knee bent, his foot up against the wall, trying to avoid the parts of the cement with unknown stains and spots of chewed gum. 

“Hey, can I get a hit of that?” 

Mickey peered over his phone, instantly irritated he was being interrupted. He glanced in front of him to find a short kid with messy blond hair, a skateboard hung under his arm. 

“What’re you like nine? Piss off.” 

The kid made a disappointed face as he rejected him. 

Mickey put the joint out on his shoe as the L stopped, screeching to a halt as its doors opened for passengers. The shitty graffiti on the side was the cherry on top of the urban city feel. He entered, the stinging aroma of piss and hot garbage filling his nostrils. The scent itself was borderline intolerable, especially after a scorching day, but Mickey had places to be, so he dealt with it. He tried sitting farther towards the window, hoping it would ware off some of the smell. 

After a fifteen-minute ride, he was at the other side of the city, and his heart did a weird little jump when he arrived. 

He was back to the ol’ stomping grounds. The inner Southside. His home sweet home. 

When some people remembered the nostalgia of their childhood, they thought of freshly cut grass, walks to the beach, grandma’s famous casserole or maybe the tire swing in the yard. For Mickey, it was the graffiti tainted fences, the distant echo of booming gunshots, the homeless guy at the corner who you tried to tip when you could. The empty beer cans on the sidewalk you kicked around out of boredom. 

It was the deep, dark, soiled alleyways. The abandoned houses with boarded up windows. The gutted cars left to sit on the side of the street. 

All sweet reminders of home, the place Mickey could never put behind him. 

The quickest route to get to his new humble abode was a brief detour through Trumball, and that’s where the familiarity really set in. The first house on the corner of the street was Mrs. Dayton who was still alive and kicking, even after all these years. Sometimes she’d give Mickey a couple extra cigarettes if she was out on her porch. The Fajardos still vacated the ugly orange house in the center, which was always booming with music and flooded with in-and-out traffic most days. Their Pitbull, Rusty, still barked ferociously at every passer-by, ready to brutally attack anyone who came close to his residence. Except Mickey. 

Rusty was barking as he approached, showing all of his teeth as his chain rattled. Once he realized it was him, though, he let down his guard and his tail began to wag excitedly. Mickey stuck his hand over the fence, petting his head and feeling his soft, velvety ears along his fingers. 

“Hey buddy,” He said sweetly as Rusty licked his forearm. “Good boy.” 

He continued on his leisurely walk and Rusty whimpered as he disappeared. 

He retrieved the joint out of his back pocket and lit it again, right before he passed the last house on the block. He leaned an arm on the mailbox. The thing was on its last leg. It was ridden with bullet holes and was almost detached from the post. He flipped it open and peered inside, looking at his artistic ‘Fuck you’ he had written in sharpie when was a kid. He couldn’t help but smirk. 

He stared back up at the house, studying the windows. Most of them were busted, glass littered all over the front porch, but there was still one intact. Terry had lost the place after he couldn’t afford the $85 section-8 rent. The last time he went to prison he was sentenced to 10 years, and once him and all of his siblings left, it was seized by the state. It was his mom’s, after all. She signed up for the place when she was pregnant with Mickey. Just 16 and already had two other kids to feed. When she died, Terry thought he had every right to it, and made it his own. 

Now, it was abandoned, just like all the other shithole houses on the block. 

Mickey finished his joint, feeling nice and stoned now. He looked down to the ground and saw a rock that caught his eye. He picked it up, tossing it in his hand a few times. He threw his arm back and launched the rock straight into a window, watching the glass shatter and fall. 

“Fuck you, dad.” He said to himself. 

At that point, his reminiscing was over. 

He walked a few more blocks until he reached his place. It was a run-down shithole also, but it was home, after all. He jogged up the stairs, inserting his key in the lock and opening the door. He could hear his neighbors in the studio over fighting again, screaming over each other about grocery money and the last pack of Newports. 

It was ear splitting, but he would put up with quite a bit more for free rent. Reese, his landlord, let him stay there free of charge unless he kept supplying him with blow. It was working out for now, so he couldn’t complain. 

His studio was a far-cry from the rest of the old apartment building, though. It was neat and clean, opposite from what he grew up with, but he wanted something different. Something he could call his own without somebody going through his shit or stealing his things. He tossed his stash of coke and a few other items in his pocket into his hiding place in the wall. A perfectly gutted hole in the drywall that was covered with a Motorhead poster. 

He set his phone and keys on the small kitchen table, then stripped down, holding his junk as he ran naked to the shower, trying to avoid anyone seeing him in the open window. Being in high-rise living had its perks as well as it’s downfalls. 

He got in, gauging the temperature to somewhat cold water, attempting to cool off from the summer’s heat. He lathered himself in Irish Spring, covering his body with suds. He slapped a glob of Head and Shoulders on his scalp, scrubbing violently. After he decided he was clean, he hopped out, grabbing a fresh towel off the rack he had just washed at Darcie’s Laundry. 

He dried off, brushing his teeth and gargling some mouthwash. He threw on some clothes; a black tank and cut off jean shorts. He heard his phone vibrating from the table. He raced over, checking the incoming text. 

**Shifty / 10:22PM: Already got three buys. Meet here at 11**

Mickey eyed the time. “Fuck.” He muttered. He ran back to the bathroom, jelling his black hair back and quickly running a comb through it. He dowsed himself in some cheap cologne before he gathered his things and hauled-ass out the door. 

\--- 

He got to the club at ten till. Mickey’s job involved being prompt, and if you were on time, you were late. He stood at the light pole, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Shifty to meet him there. He was analyzing all the customers walking into the building, getting checked and patted down at the front door. He found that to be ironic, considering he would be the one inside supplying them with the drugs they were being checked for. 

“You got my cash?” He heard a familiar voice from behind him. He turned, taking a glance at his surroundings before smacking a wad of Benjamins in Shifty’s palm. 

“Let’s go.” He said as he led Mickey to the back of the building. He flicked his cigarette butt on the pavement. 

He followed Shifty around the back alley when several broke, homeless mooches were already trying to wave Mickey down, begging for a hand-out. 

“Aye, come back to me when you got money!” Mickey reasoned, ducking under the basement entrance. 

He could hear the upbeat house music booming from the dance floor. 

“It’s a crowd tonight.” Shifty commented, opening another door that led to the back of the main stage. 

“Good.” Mickey replied. He stepped through the door and went in, following the lighted hallway until he got to the stage, sneaking his way through it and onto the main floor. 

He scanned the crowd, and it wasn’t a minute later that his first customer approached him. He held four fingers up and he reached in his backpack for a baggy, handing it to him, trying to stay under the radar. He gave him a nod before handing over some cash. Mickey counted the money, making sure it was all there. He leaned over, half-shouting in the guy’s ear. 

“Best shit you’re gonna find. Tell your friends.” 

He nodded again before disappearing into the mass of people. 

Mickey was feeling a little thirsty, so he headed towards the bar, still scoping out the vibe of the place, constantly aware of what was happening around him. He was no rookie; he had done this a million times, but being cautious was always necessary. 

He didn’t have a choice not to be. 

See, it was confusing, because Mickey was technically _allowed_ to be there and was _cleared_ to supply rich twinks with cocaine, but he still had to act in stealth, always staying alert. Cut had connects in nearly every club in the Southside, but if anything happened legally, it would be on Mickey, and therefore be on the rest of the Solano cartel. 

So fucking up wasn’t an option. 

He took a seat at the bar and ordered a shot of Jim Beam when he suddenly felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked it, reading an incoming text. 

**Shifty / 11:06PM: College kids. 8 of them down by the backstage**

_Bingo._

Mickey tapped his leg, waiting impatiently for his shot. When he finally got it, he downed it fiercely, slamming the empty glass on the bar top. He glided to the backstage, making his way slyly over to small group of young dudes, the lot of them wearing Ralph Lauren polos with popped colors. 

Shifty had the numbers, and Mickey collected from his backpack again, handing them out their portions as he got his cash. It wasn’t a bad sale. A grand in one round. He studied the young guys as they took their bags and headed for the restroom. 

“What is this, fuckin' Venice beach? Jesus Christ…” 

Shifty shrugged, putting a cigarette between his lips. “It’s tourist season.” 

They walked to the outdoor section for a smoke. Mickey looked around, hoping he’d get some more sales. While he was smoking, a few more people approached him asking for some product. He supplied, make another 800 or so. At this rate, he was confident half the blow would be sold before the end of the night. He was making another deal with someone who barely spoke a lick of English when he felt a smack on his ass. He jumped, turning around, ready to throw a fist. 

He calmed a bit when he saw Seth standing there, a skeevy grin on his face. 

Seth was his fuck of choice for the past month or so. He was shorter than him, with spiky red hair and big eyes. He had his ears gauged and was always in dark, baggy attire that did not look suitable for the hot weather. When he wasn’t couch hopping around the city, he was clinging onto Mickey, looking for a place to stay. 

And Mickey was—sometimes—looking to get his dick sucked, so it worked out. 

“What’s up?” Mickey looked around, keeping an eye on his surroundings, somewhat annoyed he was there. Now was not a good time, and he didn’t want to be distracted. 

"Just came to say hey.” He stole his cigarette from his lips, puffing on it. Mickey instantly ripped it back from his fingertips and flashed him an outlandish stare. “Can I get a bump?” 

Mickey watched someone come towards him, leaning into him and quietly asking for a gram. 

“You got money?” He asked Seth, handing over a small baggy to another happy customer. 

Seth shook his head, biting his lip piercing. “Last time you gave me a few.” 

He stared at him. “Last time I had a little room to work with.” 

He looked offended, scoffing under his breath. “Just let me get one little bump.” 

Mickey shook his head. “No. Bring me some cash and we’ll talk.” 

“Fuck you, dirtbag.” Seth shoved him in the chest before he stormed off. 

Mickey gave him the finger. “Eat me.” 

He finished his smoke hoping he wouldn’t encounter Seth for the remainder of the night. There was still work to be done. He headed back towards the bar, taking a few more shots and relaxing his nerves a bit. He was used to this job by now, but it still gave him that anxious, unsettling feeling, and sometimes, it was hard to ignore. 

He thought back to earlier that evening, in the family’s house, witnessing a murder take place and continuing on like nothing happened. It sort of scared him, that he was almost comfortable with it now. This was his new normal. This was the life he was living, and he had chosen to live when he fled for Mexico nearly twelve years ago. 

He remembered when he first crossed the border. Young, helpless and alone, with only the clothes on his back. After he ran out of the money he was given, he needed a job. Terry claimed he had some old connects down in Mexico that he would be able to get in touch with, but they all fell short. 

Nothing stuck until he met Cut. 

He had been sleeping off the beach down by a popular resort, and it was okay, except for the sand that got into every pore of your body. It had been a few months and he was running low on cash, so he made his way into town, looking for anything he could do to make a few bucks. He checked out a few of the villas and the local market, seeing if they needed stockers or maybe a delivery driver, but no one wanted to hire the homeless American chump. 

After weeks of searching, so he considered spending his last few bucks on a bus to the other side of town in hopes that maybe he’d have better luck elsewhere. He was walking back to his spot on the beach when he caught a whiff of some good smelling weed. It tickled his nose and smelled similar to the stuff he’d get back in the upper fifty. He looked around, following the smell until he came to a wide, cobblestone paved alleyway. He found a man standing there, leaned up against one of the old buildings, puffing on a joint. 

He walked towards him confidently. 

The man looked up, and Mickey caught a glimpse of the scar on his neck; a deep elevated line from one side of his throat to the other. He had a huge tattoo across his chest, written in a beautiful calligraphic font. 

_Solano La Vida_

Mickey didn’t realiz until later that this was his loyalty mark to one of the biggest drug cartels in all of Mexico. 

“Smells good.” Mickey said, trying to start a conversation. 

He didn’t respond, still staring at him, his black eyes sending a chill up his spine. Maybe he didn’t speak English. 

“Smells like the shit I’d get in Chicago.” He attempted to talk again. 

His eyes squinted. He took another puff, blowing the smoke directly in his face. “You from Chicago?” 

Mickey nodded proudly. “Southside. You been there?” 

He laughed, a gutted belly chuckle erupting from his insides. Mickey stared at him awkwardly, not knowing how to react. 

“Here,” He said, reaching from his jacket pocket and tossing him a bag of green. “Sell this. We meet here tomorrow at five. If you ain’t here, I’ll find you.” 

Mickey studied the bag, a wave of relief over flowing in him. This was his ticket. 

“I’m Mickey.” He said excitedly. 

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Sell my shit and we’ll talk later.” He spit on the floor. “Tomorrow at five. You don’t want me looking for you.” 

With that, he walked away from Mickey, leaving him standing there stupidly in the alley. 

He sold all of it that night, and that was how he made his first sixty bucks in Mexico. 

And that was the start of Mickey’s career with one of the most notorious drugs cartels in all of North America. 

As time went on and he saw how valuable he could be for his connects in the US, Cut and Mickey established a solid business relationship. He trusted Mickey, and that was everything to him. He stayed in Mexico for the next few years, building up a clientele for pot and some coke purchases, but when Cut took a liking to him, and moved him back to Chicago to deal with his ties back in the states. As Mickey continued to prove his devotion and loyalty, as well as his dedication to his work, he started giving him larger deals to handle beyond street sales. 

Gun smuggling, money laundering, drug pushing and weapon deals were just a few of the tasks that were included in his job criteria. 

Mickey was aware of the sketchy shit Cut did behind the scenes, and that he had killed a load of people, but he had no choice but to roll with it. Otherwise he would face the consequences. He was valuable in their operation, and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. 

Or else his life would then become questionable. 

Of course, he would never say anything to Cut, but after tonight’s events he knew they were going to catch some flack for this. The feds were already up their asses, catching wind about a deal up in the Northside that went bad a few months back. Juan, Cut’s cousin who was new to the scene was sneaking some heroin in the meat shop, stuffing some bags in the pork shoulders. It was an easy task, something Mickey could do with his eyes closed, but the dumbass left a bag behind, which went down the pig-chain. A few days later an investigation took place and a case started to brew. It wouldn’t lead back to Cut directly, but after that, the feds were aware of the Solano cartel being active in Chicago, and the heat was heavy from then. 

If Mickey ever screwed the pooch like that, he’d be pushing daisies no more than a week later but Cut took mercy on his cousin and gave him a second chance. He knew Cut regretted it, not putting Mickey on the job, but that was never discussed. 

So, this was his life now. Slanging whatever he could slang and getting his cut when the work was done. It wasn’t half bad, but Mickey didn’t intend on working for the cartel. It just sort of happened, and there was no going back, so he rolled with the punches as best he could. 

He seemed to have lost himself in his thoughts, coming back to reality when he was greeted by another blow-hungry twink who threw his money at him. 

As the night went on, Mickey only had half a kilo left to sell which he could easily do by tomorrow afternoon. This meant he had the rest of the weekend to relax. 

It was about 4AM, and Mickey had made a few more sells to repeat buyers, looking for some lines before the night ended. He made sure he had everything, recounted his money for good measure and headed for home. He was just exiting the back lot when he felt someone grab his forearm. He turned to find Seth looking totally twacked, tugging on his arm desperately. 

“Can I come with you?” He asked, grinding his teeth, his pupils huge and dark. 

Mickey began shaking his head in refusal, but he wasn’t just going to leave him on the side of the street. 

“Fine, whatever.” 

\--- 

As soon as they walked in the door, Mickey wouldn’t let Seth sit down and touch anything until he was bathed. He looked ragged, like he hadn’t had a shower in a week or so, and Mickey couldn’t deal with that. 

When he was decently clean, he sat on Mickey’s loveseat, invading his space and getting on his last nerve. He had helped himself to his food, slurping on ramen noodles loudly which made him want to rip his hair out. He was on his bed, playing some more solitaire on his phone and polishing off a 6-pack. 

He barely noticed his presence until he looked over his phone to find him standing at the edge of the bed, his boney arms folded against his bare chest. 

“Wanna fuck?” He asked nonchalantly.

Mickey sipped the last of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the windowsill. He belched loudly, standing up to his feet and undoing his belt. Seth bent down, getting into his usual position. 

Mickey was primarily a top, and had been for a while now. 

Well, ever since Ian left. 

\--- 

Mickey was supposed to go to Mexico for a transfer, but the timing got delayed, and Cut wanted him there in Chicago for receiving anyway. He was secretly relieved. A summer day any closer to equator than he already was sounded horrific considering it was already 89 in Chicago. 

He had a few deals to make here and there, but nothing major, so Mickey spent most of his time lounging around. He had bought a brand new A/C for his apartment, and the cool air dissipated any desire to leave. 

He had already knocked a few back, feeling the buzz before the clock struck noon. He chain smoked while he binged a Quentin Tarantino marathon, thankful that Seth split early so he could have some time alone. He was getting ready to roll a joint when he was stunned by a pounding knock.

It sounded like a cop knock. 

He paused before he walked up to the door. His shitty apartment didn’t even have a peephole to scope out who was knocking. He unlocked the chain, opening as much as the slack would let him. 

“Can I fucking help you?” Mickey snapped, barely able to peer over the metal chain. All he could see was a gold badge waving in his face and he rolled his eyes. It was just as he expected. He couldn’t turn them away, or else they’d become more suspicious and raid the place. Luckily, Mickey had a backup plan for that, along with everything else he did in regards to crime. He had talked to feds in the past, so it was no big deal. Deny, deny, deny. 

He unlocked the chain, pulling open the door. 

“FBI. Special Agent Gallagher.” 

Mickey froze, unable to move as his eyes fell upon his guest. 

It was him. _Ian fucking Gallagher._

This, he was not expecting, and had no backup plan for. 

Mickey swallowed, trying to put forth his best attempt at ‘keeping cool’ when his heart was actually pounding like a drill into fucking concrete. He could feel his stomach drop like it was being thrown off a skyscraper. He was speechless. He was nauseous. He was exploding inside, internally screaming. The last time he saw him he was 18, after he ditched him at the Mexico border. He was in the city this whole time? 

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.” He gave him a closed mouth smile. “Mind if I come in?” 

Mickey held his breath, keeping a calm persona. “What am I gonna say? No?” 

He pushed open the door, allowing him to pass. He could barely fathom what was happening. 

Mickey Milkovich, a lead partner in Solano Mexican drug cartel, and Ian Gallagher, Federal Agent, who was hired to arrest and take down notorious druglords. 

He knew they were never meant to be... 

They sat down at his tiny kitchen table, their knees almost touching but thank god they didn’t. Mickey sat enthusiastically, trying to convey that he was totally unbothered by the whole thing when he was really on the verge of shitting himself. He lit a cigarette, trying to conceal his shaking hands. 

Ian cleared his throat, pulling out a notebook from his briefcase and placing it on the table, his cheeks flushed like they used to do when he was bashful. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” 

That’s what he was going to start out with? 

Mickey snickered, leaning back in his seat. “You weren’t popping in to say hello?” 

Sarcasm was never a bad route. 

Ian smiled, though he didn’t seem to find any of it amusing. “Unfortunately, no. I’m actually here to ask you a few questions, because it’s my job to do so.” 

Mickey was avoiding making direct eye-contact with him, or even letting his eyes fall upon him at all, but while he wrote in his notepad he seized the opportunity to study him from the ground up. 

He was still tall, still covered in a shit ton of freckles, and still fucking _beautiful_. He was dressed for the job, wearing a grey suit that was opened to reveal a lavender striped dress shirt. His red hair was still the same style it had always been, sleeked back in immaculate form. The only difference was now he had a beard. It was nothing wild in length, but it was perfectly even with no patchy spots. Just a smooth blanket of red facial hair. It was undeniably hot. Fuck, he was gorgeous. It was hard to believe he had that—all that— to himself at one point in his life. 

He quickly shifted his glance when Ian looked up from the notepad. 

“I’m here to investigate the murder of Carlos De Santo Torres, brother of wanted criminal and international king pin, Santiago Roberto Torres, of the Tijuana cartel. Do you know anything about it?” Ian stared at him, blinking and waiting for a response as if this was just another day. As if he wasn’t questioning his ex-boyfriend about a murder case. 

Mickey scoffed. “Is this a fuckin’ joke?"

Ian sighed, folding his hands over the table. “No. I’m just doing my job. My boss appointed me to work this case and you are a suspected witness that I am expected to question, so that’s what I’m here to do. And I’m sure you’re just as thrilled as I am.” 

“Well, you’re gonna have to tell your friends down there at the pig-pen there’s a bit of a conflict of interest here.” He lit up the cigarette, blowing smoke in his face. 

“Wish I could, but conflict of interest has no existence through the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Ian jotted down a few more notes. 

Mickey picked up his pack from the table, offering him a cig. He refused. “You quit?” 

“Seven years this September.” Ian smiled, another close-lipped sneer that looked unbearably forced. 

For some reason, he laughed at that. Probably because it was hard to wrap his brain around it. 

“Anyway,” Ian cleared his throat again. “Do you know anything about this murder, Milkovich?” 

“Sure don’t.” He responded, taking a long drag. 

“Of course not. Well, it’s been reported that you’ve been involved with Salvador Saldona also known as Cut Throat, who’s another suspected kingpin in the Solano cartel. Is this true?” Ian scratched his beard which made a Velcro-y noise. 

Mickey’s played dumb. “Is what true?” 

“That you’ve been involved?” Ian repeated, clearly impatient. 

“I don’t know. You tell me. I’m sure you got a few pictures for evidence, don’t you?” He smirked. 

He saw him hesitate for a split second before pulling out a few shiny photo copies. 

“See? I knew you had something.” He said facetiously. 

“Is that you, in this picture?” 

Ian pointed to Mickey in the photo. It was a picture of him at the docks delivering some boxes into a loading truck. “That’s a real bad fuckin picture of me, but yeah.” 

“Saldona and his informants are known to frequent the ship docks and infiltrate drug deals there.” 

He scribbled some more notes. 

“Yeah, and?” Mickey looked around, hoping he appeared confused. 

Ian glanced up at him. “What were you doing there?” 

“I know the owners. I help out with dock loads sometimes.” He lied. 

Ian ignored his response. “Saldona is a high-profile criminal operating parameters in Mexico, pushing drugs into the US through organized crime. We know you’re in cahoots. We’re on his tail, and you’re going down with him if you don’t start talking. Saldona is a part of this murder, and it’s linked to cartel retaliation. You better hope he covered his tracks on this one, Milkovich.” 

Mickey gave him a disgusted glare, butting out his cigarette on his leather briefcase. It sizzled, and Ian looked appalled. 

“Look, Special Agent Firecrotch, you can give me the intimidating good cop bad cop shpeal and try to ruffle my fuckin’ feathers, but it ain’t gonna work. I don’t know shit about a murder, and I don’t know shit about any cartel. Now get the fuck out of my house.” He leaned back in his seat, watching him intently as he ordered him to leave. 

Ian sat completely still before standing up, pushing his chair in and gathering his paperwork. “I’ll go. For now. But you and I are going to be very well acquainted in the near future.” He gave him another weak smile and made his way out the door.


	2. The Magician

Ian left calmly, gently shutting the door behind him as he headed to the beaten, over-used elevator. He stood inside, one hand in his pocket and the other clinging his briefcase with a newly added burn mark in the center. He smiled at a couple who walked in, both of them staring at him suspiciously. Finally to the bottom floor, he let them walk out first as he led behind them, exiting the building. The temperature was just starting to rise. He found his brand-new Corolla across the street. He stepped in and closed the door. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He held his head in his hands, trembling as his breathing turned into hyperventilation. Sweat began pouring from his temples and he felt like he might become sick. He grabbed a water bottle out of the cupholder, chugging a third of it even though it was warm. He opened the door, now vomiting on the pavement, shaking uncontrollably. His nerves were shot. He turned the engine over, cranking up the A/C and pointing the vents so they blew directly on his face. He leveled his breathing, trying to relax himself before he got on the road. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He breathed, closing his eyes like he was doing some sort of meditation. 

He couldn’t believe he had seen him. He had seen him in the flesh. Face to face. He _talked_ to him. He was in his _house_ , and he still resided in the Southside. 

Ian could hardly keep it together. He knew he was going to have to track him down when he got his assignment, and he was nervous, but it all seemed to hit him at once. He was speechless. He was a ball of chaotic emotions, but he had to come back down to reality. 

He took a few more lengthy breaths before he felt he was okay to drive, but his mind was still racing, the images of a 30 year old Mickey Milkovich still replaying in his head. His muscular arms, the silver chain around his neck, the same smoothed black hair… He thought he might faint and veer off into another vehicle. 

“Get a fucking grip, you idiot.” Ian muttered to himself, probably sounding insane. “You do your job, and you leave.” 

He jumped when his phone jingled in his chest pocket. He picked it up, dropping it in his lap. He finally got ahold of it, clicking the green answer button. 

“Yeah.” He answered, staring in his rearview mirror. 

“You got him?” 

“Yep. Easy to find.” Ian answered bluntly. Yeah, super fucking easy... 

“Good. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.” 

The conversation ended and he felt like he was holding his breath through the entire phone call. 

\--- 

After another twenty-minute drive to the other side of the city, he arrived in his gated neighborhood. _Glennbrook condominiums welcomes you!_

He pulled up in his driveway, the second one by the entrance, and parked in the roomy garage. He waved at his neighbor Wendy, the sweet windowed woman he took a liking to. 

He locked his car, taking a deep breath before entering the house. 

He walked in to the smell of something cooking, and his stomach rumbled. He entered in the kitchen to find Blake busily making dinner, the table already set. 

“Hey,” Ian greeted him. “Smells yummy.” 

Blake turned, smiling at him sweetly once he noticed his presence. “Hey you. Dinner’s almost ready.” He gestured for him to take a seat at the table. 

Ian sat down and his eye caught the full glass of dark red wine near his place mat. When Blake was distracted he chugged nearly half of it while he had the chance. He tried his best to get through the taste which was easier to do so when he woofed it. 

“Whatchya' making?” He asked curiously, hoping he’d start to feel the wine soon. 

Blake was just plating their meals. “Vegetarian lasagna.” 

“Delicious. I’m hungry.” Ian tried to sound as enthusiastic as he could about vegetarian lasagna. 

Blake was an avid vegetarian, so there was absolutely no meat in the house. He was working his way to going complete vegan, but Ian was glad they hadn’t tackled that quite yet. When Blake wasn’t at work, busy being a software engineer, he was discovering new recipes to accommodate their meatless diets. 

Ian had been steady with Blake for three years now after they met at work. He was still in training at the time, about to get bumped to special agent when their whole computer system crashed. Blake’s company was called in to design the new platform for their software system. He installed and launched the entire program. When there were tech issues, Blake was the first to come fix them, so he would periodically be down out the headquarters doing computer maintenance. 

They hit it off after a few dates and moved in together shortly after. He graduated from Michigan Technological University where his parents also worked as engineer professors, which was a definite contrast to his own folks. For the most part, they were decent in-laws, and very accepting of Ian and his upbringing, even if it was so far from Blake’s. 

He joined him at the dinner table, serving him his plate and asking about his day. Ian casually skimmed over a summary of its events, lightly mentioning he stopped off at his witness’ house who he had some history with. 

“Oh my god,” Blake said, chuckling over his wine glass. “I can’t believe you’re investigating one of your high school hook-ups.” 

Ian left out the fact that they were more than just a hookup; that they were once in a committed relationship until it went down the shitter after Ian was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and Mickey tried to kill the bitch who got him arrested by military police in the midst of a manic episode…. 

To explain that, he would have to admit to Blake he was bipolar, further labeling him as a freak and making him that much more different than him and his family. 

He left out the part where he tried to get him to flee to Mexico with him after escaping prison, but he left him at the border where he then ‘supposedly’ became involved with the cartel… 

He also left out the part where he was once in love with him... 

“Yeah. Crazy, right?” His eyes widened as he fiddled with his fork, plugging his nose as he ate so he didn’t have to endure the taste. “How was your day?” 

Blake shrugged, appearing to be underwhelmed. “It was okay. That customer came in today, the one who owns the brewery or whatever over on fifth? He brought in a bunch of free stuff.” He pointed over at the counter top, and Ian eyed the beer, his mouth practically salivating. “Too bad it’s just icky beer.” 

“I can give the beer to Clark across the street. I know he likes his beer.” Ian said politely, painfully forcing himself to eat another bite. “We won’t have any use for it. Plenty of this stuff to go around.” He clinked his wines glass against Blake’s. 

“ _This stuff?_ ” He snapped, glaring at him. “This is a bottle of ’94 aged Merlot imported from Greece, Ian. Try again.” 

He shifted nervously. “Oh, yeah. Of course. It’s fantastic. It has great legs.” He said as he swished his glass around, trying to look convincing. 

Blake made an annoyed face. They finished their dinner in silence, and headed to the bedroom. Blake had to be up at four for work, so lights out were at 8:30 on the weeknights. Once they crawled in, Ian put his face up to his ear, kissing his neck and pressing his hard-on against him. Blake winced, pushing him away. 

“Not tonight, babe. You know I got that weird stomach thing going on.” He snuggled his head in the pillow. 

“Oh, I forgot.” 

And with that, Blake was asleep within minutes. 

Ian sighed to himself, rolling on his back to stare at the ceiling. His mind was a still going, anxiously repeating the images from earlier that day. 

Mickey. 

He unintentionally fell asleep to the thought of him. 

\--- 

Mickey’s alarm went off just as the sun was peeking into the window, shining light on his bed and helping him wake up. He stretched, checking his phone for any incoming messages. 

**Ricardo / 7:23AM: Breakfast is cookin**

He sprung out of bed like his ass was on fire. 

Ricardo’s wife, Vanessa, was a phenomenal cook, and since Mickey was on a canned food and pringles diet, a home cooked meal sounded like pure bliss. He got dressed, rummaging through any clean clothes he could find. A purple cut off tank paired with a black cut off flannel, along with some light wash jeans were all he had that was wearable. He brushed his teeth, jelled his hair back, grabbed his pack of smokes and stuffed anything else he might need into his backpack. 

An early morning walk around the city was actually quite peaceful. It was a workday, but it was just before rush hour, so the normally traffic-clogged streets were somewhat clear. There were the usual bums posted on the side of the street. Some of them sleeping on benches and in alleyways while others were just waking up, staring into nothingness. There were a few people walking their dogs and taking a morning job. He could hear the distant birds chirping in the trees of Harold’s park and the squeaking of the old chain-linked swing set Mickey used to play on as a kid. He walked a few more blocks until he was on Oakes drive, Ricardo’s neighborhood. The street was in slightly better shape than Trumball, but not by much. Their house was in the center of the block. Vanessa kept it looking nice, with a beautiful garden running along the pathway to the porch. The front yard was scattered with toys and a large 12-foot pool that their kids enjoyed. 

He hopped up the stairs, already hit with the wonderful smell of frying bacon before he even opened the door. He and Ricardo were at a point where knocking was no long a thing. Mickey just walked right in as if he lived there, and no one seemed to object. He was greeted by their black lab Oscar who wagged his tail in genuine excitement when he entered. 

“Hey puppy.” Mickey grabbed his ears and gave them a tussle before he was nearly tackled. Ricardo’s twin boys came running from the family room, jumping all over him and tugging on his clothes. 

“Mickey!” 

“Uncle Mickey!” 

He laughed, pretending to be taken down by their attack. They giggled hysterically and he picked them up, one on each arm. “I think Noah weighs more than you, Nathan.” 

“He does not!” Nathan stuck his tongue out while Noah pointed at him, teasing. 

Mickey set them down, rubbing his knuckles on their noggins and messing up their neatly brushed hair. 

He walked into the kitchen, his stomach grumbling as he laid eyes on the spread Vanessa had prepared. Bowls of chopped tomato, potatoes, onions, cheese, eggs, and strips of bacon she was just placing on the table, along with a stack of hot, freshly made tortillas. His mouth watered, taking a seat at his usual breakfast spot. 

“Help yourself, mijo.” She said graciously as she handed him a clean plate. 

“Shit, this looks good. Thanks.” Mickey began filling his own serving, and his eyes might have been bigger than his appetite as he gazed at the mountain of hot food. 

“Damn, hombre.” Ricardo piped in, also eyeing his plate. “You hungry?” 

“Fucking starving. I’ve been living off Top Ramen and chips for a week.” He folded his tortilla, creating a sloppy burrito and took a massive bite. Vanessa put a cold Old Style next to them. “Oh god, thank you. You know the way to a man’s heart. A straight man though.” 

They both laughed at that, and Mickey laughed with them.

It was comforting to have a warm family feel; a nice home, kids, pets and a hot meal, even if it wasn’t his own. Ricardo and Vanessa’s house came with all the wonders that Mickey never had growing up. 

He had known Ricardo for nearly 10 years, and even if they were only business partners, they had unexpectedly developed a close friendship over time; a tight bond that was unbreakable. After all, he was Mickey’s only friend, even if they met through the Mexican cartel. 

They had been through some shit over the years, and Cut trusted both of them immensely, more than anyone else on the crew. When he wasn’t around, he and Ricardo were in charge. No questions asked. They were at the top of the food chain and everything had to run through them when Cut was off on business trips. 

They finished their meals, Mickey so stuffed he could barely move. He thanked Vanessa, said bye to the kids, and they set out for the docks. Thankfully Ricardo had a truck, so he didn’t have to walk in the blazing heat. 

He and Ricardo had similar taste in music which made the drives more entertaining. Head banging to Metallica’s Ride the Lightening was a tradition of theirs before they headed to a job. They smoked a couple joints on the way, discussing a little about the deal before they arrived, being sure they had everything prepared. 

“Duke is gonna meet us on Dock A for the transfer. He has a boat coming in at nine called The Siren. it’ll be loaded to the brim with motor oil, brake fluid and antifreeze. A few boxes of engine parts for the guns.” Mickey lit a cigarette, tapping his foot on the floorboard. 

“Word. Julio’s got the box truck. He’ll run it up South Hill and unload at Irwin’s. You’ll have to do a count behind me, make sure we’re accurate.” 

“Got it. Who’s driving the boat?” Mickey asked, collecting all the details. 

“Chester. He was the boat runner last time. Remember? Short dude with the cleft lip. Gallegos is only introducing us to few members at a time. Protocol and shit. They want to make sure they’re covering their asses.” Ricardo listed everything off in detail, like he had it rehearsed. 

“I get it. Cut made a big statement by capping that guy. Tijuana is over. You think they’ll retaliate?” He asked out of curiosity. 

“In some way. But it won’t get past Amador.” 

He contemplated that. Manuel Amador was a big conman for the Gallegos cartel. He had been an enemy ever since Mickey started working, but recently, Cut decided he wanted their business for heroin distribution, so he canned Santiago Torres’ brother. Torres was head man for the Tijuana cartel who was getting their H from Gallegos, so Cut made a big move, proving his need for the distribution, sending the message for Tijuana to back off. Cartel business proposals were messy, and even Mickey didn’t understand the semantics of it, but Cut knew what he was doing so he didn’t work his brain too hard by trying to put the pieces together. He just did what he was told. 

Suddenly, his stomach did a weird flip when he thought of Ian Gallagher, the FBI agent who sat at his kitchen table trying to interrogate yesterday. He used his best judgement and decided not to tell Ricardo. Not that he didn’t trust him, but he was just a bit embarrassed in the irony of his ex-boyfriend working for the FBI when he was caught up with the cartel. What were the odds? 

He had purposefully blocked his mind from thinking of anything else that had to do with Ian Gallagher since he shut his apartment door that day. He was under the impression they were going to become “very close in the near future,” but Mickey hadn’t seen him since. 

Not that he cared. In fact, he hoped it stayed that way. 

When they pulled up to the docks and walked down the marina, everything was going as planned, set in place. They watched The Siren float in just as they approached the edge. 

“I love perfect timing.” Mickey said, folding his arms as he waited for it to park. Duke was there like he was supposed to be, nine sharp. He waved in the driver, putting his palm up when he was in at a good angle. 

A couple of other guys from their crew were there, ready to start unloading product and bringing it up to Julio’s truck. Mickey lit another cigarette, watching the driver step out. He patted Ricardo on the chest. 

“Yo, what the fuck? Who’s this chump?” 

The boat runner was not Chester with the cleft lip. Alarmed, him and Ricardo approached him, asking him some questions to prove relation. Mickey checked his phone just in case. Low and behold, there was a text from Cujo at Irwin’s Mechanical reporting the driver would be Ricky, and not to worry. 

They backed off, watching carefully as each crate of “vehicle maintenance products” were carried to the truck in the upper lot. 

Duke watched also, making sure operations were running correctly. Duke Finnigan owned the docks and overlooked all the Westport dock boat traffic. Cut had many ties with the Irish, and boat delivery was one of them. 

Mickey and Ricardo did their counts. Everything was there, plus the five crates of AK’s that would be on a different delivery. They gave Finnigan his cut for using the location; a pound and five grand. 

The next step in the plan was to follow Julio all the way up to South Hill. They concluded the deal, doing one more sweep around the boat, paying Ricky his cash in white sealed envelope and left for the truck. 

On their way they played some music and smoke some joints, shooting the shit and passing time during the drive. 

“See, you need yourself a businessman like that Vato.” Ricardo joked, pointing to man standing in the Starbucks line across the intersection. 

“Aye, I wouldn’t complain. Damn.” Mickey said, actively checking the guy out. He was wearing an attractive suit that accentuated his tight ass. He was holding a briefcase, and he was pretty tall. 

And he had red hair… 

And a neat red beard… 

It was him. Ian _fucking_ Gallagher. 

He hadn’t seen him once in the last 12 years, but now, twice in the last _day_. 

He turned his head all the way around, even when the light turned green and Ricardo stepped on the gas. 

“That fine, huh?” He nudged him in the side, joking around, but he wasn’t paying any attention.


	3. The High Priestess

“Venti five shot white mocha, light ice for Ian!” 

He walked up to get his drink off the countertop, thanking Robbie, the cute college barista boy who was always on the front lines. 

He had a short distance to walk from Starbucks to the office. 

When he got in, he greeted some of his colleagues as he went up the escalator to the fourth level of the building. The Chicago FBI Division was virtually enormous, and there were parts of it he still hadn’t even seen. He politely waved to mostly everyone he recognized even though there were new faces floating around daily. 

He sipped his coffee through the green straw, being careful not to spill on his new blue silk dress shirt he bought at Macy’s last week. His job required him to look sharp, and it wasn’t exactly cheap to do so. 

He pulled his personal phone from his pocket, checking his texts. 

**Blake / 1:42PM: Doing work in the center building. Meet for a late lunch?**

Ian smiled at his phone. He replied with a thumbs up and heart emoji. 

After a short walk to the east wing, he made his way into the office, stopping to chat with Claire at the front desk She wore bright colors and accessorized with beautiful crystal jewelry. She always reminded him of the full moons, read him his horoscope daily and studied his palms, explaining what the lines meant.

“Taurus is in for a whirlwind this retrograde.” She said bluntly, her lips pursed. 

Ian chuckled, grabbing some files off the back desk. “Is that right?” 

She clung onto a clear gemmed pendant around her neck. “It most certainly is. They say you mess with the bull, you get the horns, but this bull is going down. Be cautious. Be vigilant. Be prepared for chaos!” She handed him another daunting stack of files. “Also, do some Yoga stretches and drink chamomile tea to relax yourself. The gods know you’ll need it. Oh, and there’s a board meeting in 10 minutes.” 

Ian huffed, sincerely irritated. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He took the files from her, carrying them down the hallway as if they were cinderblocks. He took a sharp left and opened the door to his office, a plated label on the front reading: _Ian C. Gallagher_

He immediately opened the windows, a hand on his hip as he stared from the high building at the bustling downtown streets. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind and prepare himself for another day. 

“In with the good, out with the bad.” He muttered to himself, slurping his straw. 

Just then, his door busted open. 

“Gallagher! There you are! You coming to Bucky’s tonight? 3-dollar pints, man! 10 cent wings! You in?!” 

He looked up at Gus, the overweight older gentlemen who worked in notary. He could also be heard all the way _from_ the notary department, five rooms over. 

He was a nice guy, though. He was always trying to include him in post-work meetups at the bar even though he wasn’t necessarily someone Ian would just hangout with on a whim. 

“I appreciate it Gus, but I’m a vegetarian. Remember?” Ian reiterated to him for the hundredth time. 

Gus stuck his palm on his forehead. “Shit that’s right. No meat. Except for Blake’s, am I right?” He gave him a theatrical wink. 

Ian, disturbed, pretended to laugh at the joke though he found nothing funny about it. 

Ronda from Logistics peeked her head in the door. “Morning guys. We’re on in five. There’s bagels. No donuts.” 

Ian was more disappointed by a donut-less meeting than he should have been. 

“Morning. Do you by chance have my estimate spreadsheet done?” Ian asked, logging into his desktop. 

She gave him some corny finger guns. “The ink is still wet, my friend.” 

“Excellent. Well, let’s get to it.” 

\--- 

Ian took his usual seat in the meeting room, close to the front where he could get a good view of the task board. On it was a map of Chicago, a map of Mexico, and two smaller maps of New York and Seattle. They were scattered with push pins and posts-its in an attempt to track movement. In the center of the board were several unflattering mugshots of various cartel members. He was 100% sure Mickey’s was up there, but he avoided it, doing everything in his power to keep his eyes from scanning over it, as if that was going to erase his existence or something. 

The room silenced as soon as Agent Larsen appeared in the front, ready to speak and present updates. 

Judd Larsen was Executive Director for the Criminal Investigation Unit, otherwise known as Ian’s boss. The man. The head hancho. The cream of the crop. He had taken down the Amarelli mafia, the Chechen brotherhood, and had an impressive number of drug busts under his belt, including the destruction of the Shoenberg heist in the late 90’s. He was undoubtedly an expert, and spent decades perfecting his craft. 

“Morning, crew. It’s a great day to tackle one of the most high-profile criminals in Northern America. As you can see, we have a few solid leads at our fingertips. A few of them are more useful than others, obviously, but our job is to collect as much data and info as possible, no matter how minor it may be. Salvador Saldona, also known on the streets as Cut Throat, is suspected to be one of the nation’s largest cartel infiltrator’s, and he’s right here, in Chicago.” 

He was busily scribbling a few sentences on the paper, trying to look occupied. 

“Of course we all know this and are very aware, but we’ve acquired new information in regards to the murder of Carlos Del Santo Torres, brother of Tijuana cartel leader Diego Del Santo Torres. Our prediction is that Salvador’s motive was to send a message to the Tajuana cartel to heed warning, signaling them to back off their dealings with the Gallegos cartel for contraband purchases. Now, the Torres family is under investigation, but they insist Carlos was killed by random-crazed home intruders with no ulterior motives. Unfortunately, all of us lovely people at the FBI know better than that.” 

Ian chuckled along with the others in the meeting room. 

“Since they aren’t going to peep, we need to tackle the case at a different angle. Special Agent Gallagher is taking our biggest lead we have. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. Ukrainian-American man. 30 years old. We suspect he was witness to the murder of Carlos and has the answers to our questions. He escaped prison back in 2016 and fled to Mexico briefly where he became involved with Salvador, later coming back to Chicago to serve a three-year sentence before being released on good behavior. Unfortunately for us, we had no idea about his relationship with Salvador or the cartel at all until recently when he was seen at two Solano hot spots…” 

Ian kept a level head, as this was just another day on the job. He watched Agent Larsen hold up new photo prints he hadn’t seen yet. 

“Ricardo Ramirez’s house, also suspected cartel affiliation, and Duke Finnigan’s dock where he has been seen unloading concealed contraband to other distribution locations. Now, I know all of us are thinking this should be more than enough evidence to lock Milkovich up and question him about Salvador under fluorescent lighting. These cases are far more delicate than that, and take a very organized technique of investigation and interrogation. Milkovich frequents the Kash and Grab, the central Southside, and various gay clubs in the inner city.” 

Just then, Ian heard snickering behind him. Two shmucks in Financing were whispering to each other. “Fag joints. No wonder he put Gallagher on the assignment.” 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to mix business with pleasure.” More ear-splitting snickering filled his hearing. 

He whipped around so fast his neck cracked. “You’re also not supposed to mix violence with the work place but I’m in high ranks now, boys. I’m sure Larsen wouldn’t bat an eye if I knocked your teeth out, but it looks like the only thing you shitbags have ever punched is numbers into a calculator, so I'll spare you this time.” He flipped them off. 

Somewhere, hidden deep inside the inner core of his true character was still a small, microscopic streak of Southside demeanor… 

Both of them closed their mouths, shifting in their seat and looking obviously uncomfortable until Ian spun back around, refocusing his attention. He had already taken a page of notes, continuing to the following empty side. 

“Milkovich grew up on Delmont, and sometimes passes through there on his way to his new—” 

“Uh,” Ian raised his hand, though he spoke anyway. “Trumball.” 

Larsen looked around, obviously perplexed. “What?” 

Ian cleared his throat hesitantly. “He actually grew up on Trumball.” 

“And how the hell do you know that?” He questioned, opening his blazer to rest his hands on his sides. 

“Oh I just— he went to my elementary school.” He blurted out. It was the truth, after all… 

“You attended school in the Southside of Chicago?” He questioned. 

“Uh… My mom was a social worker. For the school district. We moved all over the city.” 

There was the lie. 

Larsen stared at him conspicuously before continuing. 

“Anyway,” He faced the task board again, placing his pointer finger over Mickey’s face. “This little ghetto shitbird could be the ticket to busting the Solano cartel and we can all trust Agent Gallagher to crack the case. Agent Grimshaw will be his lead detective if he needs him. Since Gallagher will be out on the field most days, make sure you deal with anything paperwork related ahead of time.” 

There was more data-briefing throughout the meeting with some detailed background on who they should be targeting until it finally concluded. He headed back to his office, sitting down at his computer to type up some notes and finish some reports. Finally, his lunch hour rolled around. He left his desk, opening the door when he was stunned to see Ronda standing on the other side. 

He jumped in surprise. 

“Woah. You scared me.” He laughed. 

“Larsen is obsessed with you!” She cheered. 

Ian shut the door behind him, checking the time on his watch. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean he actually wants you on this case! He didn’t pick anyone else! You’re so gonna get that promotion!” She stared up at him, her large, round eyes blinking. 

Ian grabbed her shoulders, smiling excitedly. “Good god, I hope you’re right.” 

She giggled. 

“I’m taking 45. I’ll see you in a bit.” 

\--- 

The good part about the Chicago Division was that it had an outstanding cafeteria. The food options were endless, so he and Blake never found a reason to meet anywhere else when they were working in the same place. 

Today they decided on the small Italian bistro they both enjoyed. Blake ordered them fettuccini noodles and water with lemon. 

“So, I pretty much got the case.” Ian said excitedly, twisting a glob of noodles around his fork. 

Blake nodded, slurping in his bite. “One step closer to your promotion. I am dying to go to Greece next year!” 

Ian agreed, though he had no idea why. He knew nothing about foreign countries, and traveling internationally wasn’t really on his high-light list, but he knew Blake would adore it. 

“I’m gonna to head back up to the office and get ready to hit the road. Larsen is gonna give me a few locations tonight that I’ll start with.” He took a sip of his water, then belched loudly afterward. 

Blake grimaced. “Ian, that’s so gross.” 

“Sorry,” Ian said, wiping his face on a cloth napkin. 

“Are you going to be at work Sunday? I want to go to Capital Mall.” He asked, kicking his leg playfully under the table. 

Ian looked at him. “I’m going to be working pretty much every day.” 

“What? Is that legal?” 

“No, but neither is the Mexican cartel. If there’s a spot with a lot of heat, I’m off to that location. It’s unpredictable, really. I never know what’s going to happen.” 

They finished up their meals, kissed each other goodbye and headed their separate ways. 

\--- 

The nerves of targeting his ex-boyfriend for his case pretty much wore off as he knew he had no other choice but to just do it. He was ready to take on anything that came his way. He gathered a few things he needed from his office. Extra notebooks, pens, tissues, his work phone, and an additional outfit for identity purposes. 

Just as he was about to leave he heard a light tap on his office door, followed by Larsen entering. 

“Hey there, big guy.” He greeted him as he set a file on his desk. “There’s a few to start out with. It’s nothing major, but as the case develops and we get more established, we’ll have more by the day.” 

Ian smiled, stuffing the file in his briefcase. “Thanks, Agent.” 

“You know the drill. You know the tactics and the you’ve got the skills. I’m looking forward to seeing your progress on this, Gallagher.” 

His smile didn’t fade. He nodded his head, feeling honored. “Thank you, sir. I’m ready to get out there.” 

“Damn right you are.” He said, opening the door to leave. “Good luck out there. Oh, and, once you do track down Milkovich, try to make it very clear that this Tijuana retaliation is serious. We want to scare the shit out of this punk. Tell him they could be going after him directly, so he better leak the details.” 

Ian thought about that for a moment. “Would they go after him directly, sir?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Don’t put anything passed these psychotic fucks.” 

The door slammed shut behind him. 

Ian stood there, silent, grasping the thought of Mickey being killed in the hands of the Mexican cartel. 

\--- 

He got to take the unmarked Chevy Suburban, a roomy vehicle with a back-up camera. He cruised around the streets, taking his time and scoping out the area. Being back in the Southside for the first time in multiple years was definitely odd, but it hadn’t changed a bit. Some businesses were shut down while other new ones took their place, but the inner city vibes were still the same. 

It was still dirty, grimy, and thick with crime. 

He made his way down towards his first location, parking across the street and preparing himself to be waiting for a while. He put his seat back. The windows were tinted, but he wanted to conceal himself as much as possible. He opened up a bag of gluten free crackers that Blake had bought from Costco. 

He took a bite, immediately opening the car door to spit it out on the pavement. 

“Fuck,” He muttered to himself. “Tastes like fucking cardboard.” 

He trashed the cracker idea, now sipping on a water bottle purely out of boredom. He watched a few customers walk in and out of the Kash and Grab. The place was still the same it had always been, uninviting and filthy, probably under new management by now. He kept his eyes peeled while simultaneously writing a few notes on his lined paper pad. He tapped his pen against his temple as if to activate thoughts from his brain. He created some type of bubble-web, circling known cartel members and their possible whereabouts. He wrote down Ricardo Ramirez and traced another bubble coming out of it. Mickey. The FBI didn’t even know the name he most commonly went by. 

He scratched it out, writing Mikhailo instead. 

He hadn’t written the name “Mickey” in years, but actually tracing it on paper reminded him of how many times he _used to_ write it. 

On his binder, in textbooks, on the back of class assignments he had to turn in, under park benches carved in with a knife. In his journal in various fonts and sizes, written repeatedly, sometimes out of anger, other times out of sadness… 

In letters he wrote him before he realized he really wasn’t coming back from Mexico… Letters he never gave him, that were still locked away, hidden in an old Nike shoebox… 

He was biting the tip of his pen, clearly distracted. He glanced up at the store entrance and almost had an aneurysm. Mickey fucking Milkovich was walking into the fucking Kash and Grab. His hair was jelled back neatly per usual, and he wore a dark blue stripped tank with a pair of light washed jean shorts that had loose strings of denim hanging off the bottom. His black Timberland’s with silver accents were neat and clean. He scrambled to press the ‘start engine’ button, flipping a U-turn and pulling up the curb. He waited, tapping his fingers on his knees, his head ducked out the window. He was nervous for some reason; he wasn’t expecting to find him so fast, none the less on the first location. 

After a few moments passed, Mickey came marching from the store like he had somewhere to be, sticking the tucked in cigarette from his ear in between his lips. He carried a 24-rack of Old Style and a tube of BBQ pringles was tucked in his arm. He took his opportunity. 

“Milkovich!” Ian shouted from the Suburban. 

Mickey, confused, stopped in his tracks and looked around until he laid eyes on the driver’s window. He could see him cussing under his breath, shaking his head as he walked in the other direction. 

“Hey!” He stepped on the gas, following him as he picked up speed. He was right on his tail, driving down the alleyway he dipped down into. 

“Fuck off, Special Agent Firecrotch!” He yelled back to him, still not stopping as he flipped him the bird. He shot down a set of lower stairs that led to a quick cutoff on the other sick of the block. He knew these streets just as well as he did, even if it had been well over a decade since he had walked them. He put the SUV in park, bolting for the cutoff and running towards him. He was surprised to see him standing there, not moving, waiting for him to approach. 

“You still got a thick fucking skull, don’t you?” 

Ian stared at him. The poor overhead lighting above them reflected off his ocean blues. “Look, I know you don’t want shit to do with me but I just want to talk—” 

“I haven’t talked to you in 12 years on purpose. Now you’re a fucking fed, and you think I’m gonna start now? You’re still dumber than fuck, I see.” 

Ian was trying not to look down passed his face, but he snuck a quick glance anyway. He noticed a new tattoo on his chiseled chest. He could only see the top of it exposed on the edge of his tank. It was a dragon of some sort, in an “S” shape, the rumored symbol for the Solano cartel. 

He fixed his focus back on their conversation. “Just give me five minutes of your time.” He begged, probably sounding desperate as hell. 

Mickey sneered, licking his lips. “My time is precious, Gallagher. My job has me on a quite the fucking time crunch. You should know all about that though.” He winked. 

He didn’t even give him a chance to respond. He was already down the cutoff and walking to the other side of the street. Ian stood there, dumbfounded that he basically was blown off by a suspect. 

\--- 

Mickey made the turn on his block, walking into his apartment building. 

He couldn’t believe it. Ian actually thought somewhere in his tiny pea brain that he was really going to drop everything he was doing and give him some kind of inside info. 

“Fuckin’ dumbass.” He whispered, still in disbelief by the whole thing. 

Rather than taking the elevator up to his apartment, he jogged up the five flights of stairs. He kicked the door open, setting his rack of beer on the table and breaking into the box, taking one out. He flipped the metal tab with a loud crack and took a bubbly sip. It was the best tasting shit, a cold beer on a hot summer’s day. 

He opened Netflix on his flatscreen, about to plop on the couch when his phone rang. An unknown number. He answered. 

“Yeah?” 

Cut’s voice came through the speaker. “Tijuana is in the city. No deals on the waterfront. Too much heat. I have other dock options on the East side that Finnigan is not aware of, so payment will go elsewhere, but stall him. We need that dock for a big shipment tomorrow. Right now, there’s a load at Irwin’s waiting. I’ve told Ricardo. Deliver it to Cantelli’s meat shop.” 

“Cantelli's?” Mickey questioned. 

“I met with Pauly Cantelli. We have some business in the works. This is our first job. Finnigan will meet you there.” 

The dial tone beeped in his ear. 

Tijuana was most likely on the lookout, trying to get some hints as to who Solano was dealing with and swoop in. The territory came with the job, so Mickey was used to it, but it was always a little nerve wrecking to hear about retaliation moves. 

No deals at the waterfront sounded easy for Cut, which it was, but it meant a shit ton of extra work for Mickey and Ricardo. Canceling waterfront deliveries consisted of making numerous calls, rerouting boats to truck stops, and dealing with a pissed off Irishmen who expected income for their dock use very soon. 

It was all part of the game. You gain access somewhere, then stop paying when something better comes along. 

Mickey shut his TV back off since he now had work to do. He grabbed his backpack, stuffing as many beers as he could fit into it. He locked his apartment, jogging back down the stairs and down into the lobby. He saw Ricardo’s truck already out front waiting for him. 

The sun was just setting under the horizon and a gust of cool air hit his skin once he stepped outside. He hopped in the truck, handing Ricardo a beer. 

“Aye, thanks vato.” He said graciously as he cracked it open. 

“Damn, Finnigan’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.” Mickey declared. 

Ricardo took a sharp left up towards South Hill. “Yeah, and we’re the sorry mother fuckers that have to deal with him. Just wait until he catches wind Cut’s dodging him. He’ll be up our ass.” 

“Yep,” Mickey agreed, pulling out his pocket knife. “And if he don’t shut the fuck up about it, Cut ain’t gonna like it. We gotta call Julio tonight. Reroute all the fuckin boats to load off in the morning.” 

He made a small hole up by the mouth of the can, then stabbed the center. Beer sprayed everywhere. The window, the dash, the seats and the steering wheel. He held the can to his mouth and gulped. 

“Aye! Damn, ese!” 

Once he finished, he burped so loud his own ear drums rang. “Sorry. Best way to get drunk fast.” 

When they pulled up to Irwin’s Auto, Finnigan was already there, his arms folded, looking stern as he waited for them. The garage was open and their load was sitting next to a broken-down Nissan Xterra. Mickey got out of the truck, walking up to the boxes and peering inside. 

“Clear, huh?” He said, inspecting the numerous packed bags of a crystal-ish substance. 

“Best shit on the market.” Finnigan walked over, also looking down at the meth. It was hard to understand him over his thick accent, but Mickey was used to it now. 

“When the fuck did the Cantelli’s have a use for meth?” He asked, curiosity eating him. 

Finnigan shrugged. “Who knows? But they want it. Bad. They cut their losses with Gallegos who was supplying them.” 

Ricardo picked up a box to load into his truck when he stopped suddenly. “Then where the fuck is this from?” 

“Tijuana.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Cut boots Tijuana to get Gallegos recognition, only to turn around and sell Tijuana’s product to an old Gallegos customer?” Mickey expressed, astonished by Cut's motives.

“That’s right. And it didn’t end well. Cantelli’s alliance break came with spilled blood.” 

“Then why does he—” Mickey almost brought up the fact that Cut ordered no dock delivers, because of Tijuana on their ass. He corrected himself. “Then Tijuana is cool?” 

“Not exactly. They’re still pissed, but they’ll take our money. Plus, their prices are better. But if Gallegos find out, it won’t be good. Cut works in mysterious ways, but the numbers add up in the end.” Finnigan explained.

Mickey tried to follow, but it made his head hurt. Cut was making big decisions that could end up very badly if anything went wrong. 

They had everything loaded, about to hit the road when Duke came to the window. 

“Not so fast. Where’s my cash?” He held his hand out, expecting a stack of money. 

Ricardo didn’t hesitate to respond. “We’ll pay you after the Westport shipment tomorrow.” 

He shot them both a weary look before tossing something in the window. It was a huge gallon Ziploc of meth. 

“No thanks, man.” Mickey rejected. “I don’t fuck with—” 

“Not for you, ya halfwit. For your boss. He’ll be at the house in Rohnert Park. Best stop there right after the meat shop.” 

He tapped the truck door, signaling them to take off. 

“Man, what the fuck is Cut doing?” Ricardo asked, passing him a joint he lit. 

“I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing,” Mickey picked up the bag of meth, waving it near him. “This shit right here ain’t gonna help him think clearly.” 

When they arrived to the house on Rohnert Park, Mickey sighed, bracing himself for the condition of the home on the inside. He had been here a few times to meet with Cut directly, though locations were always changing. The two of them did a quick scope of their surroundings before walking up to the porch. The screen door was hanging off the hinges and the porch was littered with trash and other large disposable items. They stepped in and were instantly hit with the smell of good weed, stale beer and fried tortillas. Heavy Spanish rap played on the loudspeakers from some room, and the whole house was dark and musty. Mickey could already feel his body dampen from the humidity. 

They walked into the kitchen to find Cut sitting at the kitchen table, playing poker with some man he didn’t recognize. A woman—much too young—sat on his lap, dressed in nothing but jean shorts. He had a cigar in his mouth, smiling as he greeted him, revealing his several gold crowned teeth. 

“Mi amigos!” He shouted, throwing the woman off of his lap. She said nothing. He stood up from his chair, bringing them in for a hug. He always smelled harshly of body odor. 

Mickey held up his share of meth, presenting it to him. He smiled. “Gracias. Have a seat, muchachos.” 

He didn’t want to, and he was almost sure Ricardo wanted to go home to his sons, but of course, they sat and joined him in their poker game. He opened the bag, heating up the crystal and smoking it out of his glass bubble pipe. As the night went on, he became more aggressive, pulling him and Ricardo in for headlocks and challenging them to arm wrestles. They let him win at every round of poker, mostly because he’d flip the table in a raged tantrum if he didn’t. He offered them shots of tequila, one after the other, and pretty soon he ended up fucking the young woman on the couch. 

But they couldn’t leave. Not until they were dismissed. 

After his nonsense somewhat subsided, he became serious, taking them back in the kitchen for business talk. Mickey had to be careful, because even though he was shithoused, he had to intently listen to every word he was saying. Ricardo did the same, even though he was practically rocking in his chair like he was on a sailboat. 

“Tijuana is wanting revenge. We have to be alert. I’m sure the Irishman explained why we’re working with Cantelli’s.” He stated, puffing his cigar. 

“He did.” Mickey confirmed. 

“Tijuana is a better investment, and though they want me dead, they will take our business until I’m six feet under. I want to kill Diego Del Torres and take over Tijuana. Ricardo,” 

He shifted in his seat, looking taken aback when he heard his name. He sat up straight, paying attention. 

“I want you to do it. Mickey needs to come with me to Mexico, sometime in the beginning of August. I need you to implement the kill while we’re gone.” 

He couldn’t believe what he was saying. He had never asked either of them to whack anyone before, and it frightened him. 

“So, we buy from them now, then can this guy and take over?” Mickey asked, trying to understand exactly what point he was making. 

“That is right. This way we don’t have to worry about added stress. Torres knows we are not playing games after the death of his brother, but if we keep marching to their drum, they won’t suspect our attack. It’s a move that needs to be made. Gallegos is already ours, but we need to make our mark. The word will spread and we will have more opportunities.” He stared at them both, waiting for a response. 

Mickey glanced at Ricardo who seemed to be mute. “We’ll take care of it. Everything’s running smoothly now. We’ve got it.” 

Cut let them go, and when Ricardo dropped him off, he said nothing. His mind was heavy with Cut’s new business plans. He didn’t even know what the fuck to say to Ricardo. He thought about calling Seth to come hangout with him so he wouldn’t have to be alone. At least he would have some kind of company to ease his mind, but Seth was nothing but a chore lately, so he decided against it. 

He took a deep sigh, rolling his lips as he exhaled. 

He knew where he was headed.


	4. The Empress

Ian was back at the window in his office, scanning the streets below him. His mind was still wandering back to his encounter with Mickey last night, and for some reason, he felt fucking stupid about the whole thing. Like he had some manipulative power over him, when it was supposed to be the other way around. He sipped on his evening iced coffee, contemplating what his next move would be. 

He was ready to get out on the streets, but he wanted to catch Larsen before he left. He exited his office and strolled down the hallway to the other side of the East wing. He approached Larsen’s office, the biggest one in the entire division. The blinds were closed which was unusual. He tapped lightly on the door, waiting for a few moments until the knob finally turned. 

“Oh. Hi, Ian.” 

It was Liz, the younger new-hire in administration. Her makeup was smeared and she seemed to be out of breath.

“Hey, Liz. Your department is on the first level, isn’t it?” Ian asked, honestly curious. 

She smiled, looking down at the floor. Before Ian could get another word in, she dipped past him, running off in the distance. He made an about face before entering Larsen’s office. 

Ian found him at his desk messing with the zipper of his pants. 

"Hey, chief.” Ian greeted him, cautiously approaching, hoping he wasn't walking-in on anything he shouldn't have. 

Larsen jumped in his seat, shuffling around frantically before rolling his chair forward to his desk. “Gallagher. Didn’t expect to see you there.” 

Ian waved, standing there stiffly. 

“Have a seat, son.” 

He would never say anything to him about it, but he despised when he called him that. 

“That’s alright sir, I just wanted to give you the latest before I head out. I found Milkovich last night.” He stated 

“Good!” Larsen exclaimed. “Collect info. As much as you can. You know the dance. He’s a descendant of Terrance Milkovich, so he’ll give us a run for our money, but we have to be vigilant. Butter him up. Buy him dinner. Those Southside freeloaders love anything they don’t have to work for.” 

“I got all that,” Ian began. “But there’s a bit of an issue here.” 

“I’m not following...” He folded his hands on his desk, leaning forward. 

“Well,” Ian cleared his throat. “Milkovich and I... we have some history.” 

He still looked shockingly confused. Did he have to spell it out for him? 

“He’s my ex-boyfriend.” 

There was a painful silence before Larsen replied. 

“Are you telling me your witness on this case, Mikhailo Milkovich is your ex-boyfriend?” He broke out into an eruption of booming laughter. “Well, shit. What the fuck are the odds of that?” He slammed a fist on the desk, totally entertained by it all. 

Ian let out a forced chuckle. “Yeah. Wild...” 

“This is perfect. This is great!" He stood up from his seat. “Flirt with him. Lure him in. Tell him you want him back. I don’t give a shit. Make this nut crack!” 

“Right. That’s great and all, but I approached him last night, outside of the Kash and Grab, and he didn’t want to talk to me.” 

There was another long pause. 

“Gallagher, you do realize you’re a criminal investigator and field agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation? You carry a gun on your holster. You can talk to anyone you damn well want to.” 

"I know but—” 

“I don’t think you and I are on the same page here, Gallagher. You work in the illegal drug operations department and your job is to investigate witnesses who are suspected to be dangerously involved with massive drug cartels. I don’t give a shit if I ask you to interrogate your ex-boyfriend or Donald Duck. You investigate your assigned witness. Got it?” 

“Yes sir.” Ian said flatly. 

“Look, I don’t give a damn about your love life, but if you want to loosen his lips a little, we can do a search warrant. I’m sure he’s got an array of illegal crap in that shithole he lives in. We’ve got a lot on Milkovich. A hole cabinet full of files up the yang. You read him his charges, and you give him a deal. You tell him if he doesn’t start to talk, he’s facing 30 years of federal prison.” 

He was silent, realizing he sounded like a blabbering idiot. 

“I—I understand.” He confirmed. 

“Good. Now get out there. The clock is ticking.” 

\--- 

Ian’s interaction with Larsen at the office earlier was absolutely mortifying. What was he expecting from him? To assign the case elsewhere because he was once involved with his suspect? He was stupid to assume that would even be considered. He got back in the Suburban, racing out of the parking lot and heading for the inner-city streets of Southside Chicago. 

Luckily, he grew up here, so he was willing to bet he knew his way around better than anyone in his department. Maybe even better than anyone who worked at the Chicago Division… 

He thought about returning to the Kash and Grab, waiting outside for Mickey to turn up, but based on his reaction last time he was probably avoiding the place by now. He pulled out his file folder. It was titled “M. Milkovich” in Larsen’s handwriting. 

He glanced at siting locations. 

[](https://imgbb.com/)

Ian looked at the clock on the dash. It was only ten after six. From past experience, he knew that these clubs didn’t start rolling into action until around nine or so. 

He turned on some Metallica, gearing up for another night of cat and mouse. He jammed all the way there, tapping his foot to Lars Ulrich’s badass percussion rhythm in "One.” 

And then, he remembered how much Mickey loved Metallica. And maybe he wondered if he still listened to them… 

\---

Even though he didn’t kill much time stopping for dinner, he decided to go in early. He sat at the bar in the Buff and Stuff for a while, scoping out the area and drinking Kendall Jackson chardonnay, the only wine they carried. 

He focused his attention on his phone, shooting Blake a text. 

**Can’t wait to see you.**

He clicked send, setting his phone on the bar. He idly sipped some more wine, his eyes scanning the place. Suddenly, the front doors opened, letting in a gust of warm air from the summer's heat. Ian was stunned. 

There he fucking was. Mickey Milkovich. How did he get the timing just right?

He noticed he was strutting towards the bar. Ian quickly spun around, pretending he didn't see him.

“Hit me with a Makers.” Mickey requested, tossing a few bills on the table. The bartender scrambled around until he slid a full shot glass towards him. He watched him hold the glass up in his peripheral vision. 

“Cheers.” 

Ian looked up at him, holding his wine glass in the air. “Cheers.” He replied. 

Mickey glanced over, and it looked as though he was about to fall off the barstool, his jaw agape. “ _Gallagher?_ ” 

Ian gave him a relaxed smile before losing his attention, focusing back on his phone. Blake texted him back. 

**Blake / 7:12PM: Me too babe. Hurry and get home 😉**

Ian’s eyes widened. The winky-face emoji sent him into a giddy excitement. He felt like leaving Mickey in the dust knowing he might get a little action for the first time in weeks. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mickey pressed, distracting him from his horny thoughts.

“Just hanging out. Long day.” He answered. Ian wasn’t engaging much, as it was all part of the plan. 

He cupped his hand over his mouth, laughing for a moment and shaking his head, probably in disbelief. “Hanging out at the twink club I just so happen to fuckin' be at.” 

“Am I not allowed to be here?” Ian’s eyebrows furrowed as he sipped more wine.

Mickey finally downed his shot, not even wincing from the taste. 

Nothing had changed. 

“I don’t give a fuck where you're at, but if you think I don’t see the little game you’re playing here, you’re a stupider than I thought.” He waved down the bartender, holding up two fingers. 

“No games. I like lap dances too.” 

Mickey turned towards him, leaning an elbow on the bartop. “Oh yeah? I think I remember you giving them, not getting them.” 

He hesitated for a second, taking another sip. “You have a bad memory then.” 

Mickey scowled as the bartender returned with the shots. He slid Ian his and he looked down into the amber liquid, gazing at his reflection. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a shot of alcohol. Blake had converted him to nothing but wine and the occasional gin-soda. For some reason, he felt nervous, like he was doing something awful. Like he was cheating or being unfaithful in some way. 

But this was part of his job. 

“What’s a matter Gallagher?” Mickey teased, a condescending tone ringing in his voice. “You gonna knock a real drink back or you gonna stick to your pussy wine?” 

Ian shot him a dirty look, and to his surprise, he was smiling. That sly, impish side grin followed by that fucking lip licking. He still had the same mannerisms. 

Without another word, he took the shot. He felt the whiskey flow down his throat, tingling, instantly flooding him with warmth. 

He looked back at Mickey who seemed to find it entertaining. 

“That should loosen you up.” He sneered. 

Ian didn’t find it amusing. His lips pursed as he turned his barstool towards him. “I was going to say the same thing to you.” 

He glared at him; his eyes fierce. “Nah. It’s gonna take a lot more than that to loosen me up, Gallagher. You should know,” He sized him from the ground up. 

Ian looked him in the eyes, starting to feel the whiskey. “I don’t claim to know you anymore. Nor do you know me.” 

“Is that right?" Mickey's eyebrows raised. "Well, you see that hot dude shaking his tight ass on the stage back there?" He pointed behind him. Ian turned, glancing at the young man. "I’m gonna take a seat over in front, and he’s gonna grind on my dick and I can guarantee you’re gonna watch. And you're gonna like it.” 

Speechless, he watched him walk away. 

Sure enough, he walked to the front of the stage and sat down in front of a very young and very fit gentlemen with a crew-cut and angel wings tattooed on his back. He was moving with grace, his hips swaying to the heavy beat. He glided to the edge of the stage, right in front of Mickey, where he straddled on top of him. 

It was like slow motion. He watched him run his hands across Mickey’s biceps. His chest, then down to his thighs… He was whispering in his ear and Mickey looked like he was in a complete trance, a pleasurable grin sneaking on his face. He wrapped his hands around the man’s waist, the Fuck-U Up on his knuckles reflecting off the colorful stage lights. 

Ian felt a few beads of sweat on his temple 

Mickey was whispering back to him as he slipped a few bills in the waistband of his metallic silver shorts. That’s when he started to grind all over him, causing Ian's stomach to flip. He caught his eyes, all the way from across the room. 

Appalled, he turned back towards the bartender immediately. 

“I’ll have another, please.” He ordered, frantically fixing the collar on his dress-shirt feeling suddenly claustrophobic. 

He kept his back turned, avoiding what was happening behind him. He took one more shot of whiskey before getting up from his seat and heading towards the exit. He passed by Mickey who was still in La La Land, lost somewhere on Planet Twink. 

He reached for his card in his breast pocket, walking right up to where he sat, the young man still grinding all over his groin. 

“The only thing I’m gonna be watching is your little cartel job go down the shitter. See you around.” 

Mickey eyed the card, looking annoyed before he swiped it from his fingers.

\--- 

Ian drove home in a rage. 

“Fucking asshole,” He said to himself as he blared the music in the Suburban. He might have been a little drunk, going over the speed limit and veering in and out of the lane. “Thinks he can manipulate me. Thinks he’s gonna get some kind of fucking rise out of me.” 

When Ian finally pulled into their garage, he shut off the engine and sat in silence for a few moments, collecting himself before going in the house. He was annoyed by Mickey’s smart-ass attitude. 

He actually couldn’t stand him. 

He got out of the car, slamming the door shut and marching into the house. 

There was some Michael Bublé playing in the living room. He walked down the hallway and into their bedroom where he found Blake in his robe, curled up in bed.

“Hey,” Ian said, unbuttoning his shirt and aggressively tossing it in the hamper. 

“Hey, babe.” He responded, sipping on his wine. “Long day?” 

Ian shrugged, subsiding his anger from earlier. “A little. How was yours?” 

He turned to meet his eyes when he was already crawling towards him, wrapping his arms around his neck and bringing him into a wet kiss. Surprised and excited, Ian scooped him in his arms, kissing him back intensely as he already felt his cock start to rise in his slacks. 

Usually it was Ian who insinuated any kind of intimacy between them, but tonight Blake seemed to take initiative, and he did not object. Maybe tonight he’d let Ian finally do what he wanted... 

He unbuckled his pants as Blake removed his robe, beginning to try and turn his body on the bed, when he stopped him. 

“Babe, you know I don’t like that. It hurts.” He insisted, grabbing onto Ian’s shaft. 

He sighed, smiling. His eyes shut. “I know. Maybe we can just try and put it in? See how it feels?” 

“Have you been drinking _liquor_?” 

Ian hesitated, thinking back to his multiple shots of whiskey at the club. Blake would lose his shit if he knew he was there, even under work circumstances. 

“Ronda and I grabbed a drink at Sparta’s on the way.” 

Blake lolled his head back, groaning in annoyance. “Ugh. No wonder you’re all touchy feely. Lay down. Let’s jerk each other off.” 

Ian was slightly disappointed, but a jerk-off session would suffice.

\---

When they finished, they each cleaned up, and Blake turned the TV off, rolling the other way to go to sleep. 

Ian laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, replaying his interaction at the club with Mickey earlier. He was livid about the whole thing. Mickey was nothing but an arrogant, ghetto loser who needed a reality check. Larsen was right—Ian was a member of the FBI and wasn’t going to give into his petty games. He was trained to outsmart these criminals. it was time to take action at a different angle, and intruding in on his home was a good way to rattle the cage. It was time to assert dominance, and Ian wasn’t going down without a fight. 

Soon after his mental pep-talk, the vivid image of Mickey sliding his hands up the dancer's hips seemed to pop back into his head. He watched him spread his hands back behind his ass, running them up his back and across those angel wings. He thought about him whispering in his ear. What was he saying? Not that he cared—he was only curious. Most likely something incredibly inappropriate, he was sure, but he wanted to know. He wondered if he ever heard the same words. Whatever the words were, it unavoidably bothered him.


	5. The Emperor

The next morning at the office was nothing short of a shit show. The copier broke down not once, but twice, Larsen was on a complete rampage with new inside “info”, and Ian spilled his coffee on a spreadsheet which he couldn’t reprint due to the broken copier. Not to mention the whole FBI tech system crashed, so everyone was running around like wild banshees, panicking from the lack of computers. 

He couldn’t wait to get out of there. He had a few things to wrap up and he was ready to hit the road. He walked out into the main room, throwing his coffee mess away and saying bye to Tina in H/R who was leaving for the day, claiming she couldn’t do anything without the computer system. 

Ian was ready to go, when Larsen came zipping from around the corner nearly knocking him onto the floor. 

“Gallagher! Just who I was looking for. New plan today. You head up with Grimshaw to South Hill. We need eyes on Cantelli’s meats.” He handed him some paperwork, walking back down the hall. 

“What about Milkovich?” He shouted. 

Larsen turned, walking backwards. “Take a break. You of all people should be happy about that.” 

Ian looked down at the files solemnly. 

\--- 

They sat across from Cantelli’s meat shop in Dan Grimshaw’s shitty unmarked car he drove around for the past decade. It reeked of cigarettes and motor oil. 

“Why are we here again?” Ian asked impatiently, skimming the paperwork Larsen had provided. 

Grimshaw had a lit smoke in his hand, staring at the entrance of the shop through a pair of binoculars. 

“Boss thinks Paulie Cantelli’s laundering. As if that’s a fuckin’ shock.” 

Ian shook his head, still looking over the paperwork when he shot a glance at him. “What the fuck? Paulie Cantelli? This isn’t even for the Solano case!” 

Grimshaw nodded, puffing his smoke. “Nope. But here we are.” 

“Last time I checked we were assigned to Solano for the past five months. Italian’s are city cases.” 

Ian was in a foul mood. His day wasn’t going as planned, and now he was stuck with Grimshaw inhaling secondhand Lucky Strike smoke and staring at drying salami. He tossed the papers on the floorboard, kicking his feet up on the dash and playing around on his phone. 

“How’s Blake doing?” Grimshaw asked, obviously trying to strike up conversation. 

Ian opened up the Instagram app, idly scrolling. “He’s alright.” 

“How does he feel about you dealing with an old lover?” 

Ian shot him a disturbed look. “ _An old lover?_ Larsen fucking told you, didn’t he?” 

He shrugged, putting his cigarette in his ashtray and looking back into the binoculars. “He might have mentioned it.” 

He lost interest in his phone, tossing it into the cupholder. “Jesus, what happened to confidentiality?” 

“I don’t know, but speak of the devil, there he is. Mik—whatever his name is.” 

Ian’s heart dropped in his fucking stomach. He ripped the binoculars from his hands, practically diving into his lap to get a look. “Where?” 

He pointed to a box truck speeding down the alleyway, going around the back. “Special delivery.” 

“Go!” Ian ordered, and Grimshaw sped out of the parking spot, racing to the other side of the block. He parked across the street where Ian began to watch intently. He bit the skin on his lip as he focused the binoculars, adjusting them until he finally got a clear view. Sure enough, Mickey hopped out of the passenger’s seat with Ricardo Ramirez, the driver. He zoomed in closer, studying him. 

He was wearing those combat boots again, with a white tank and cut-off purple flannel over it, paired with black shorts. His hair was—of course—slicked back, and his tattoos were extremely visible in the sunlight. His muscles were defined too, and he had a Marlboro red 100 tucked in his ear, his cigarette of choice since the day he met him. 

“Obviously Larsen knows what he’s doing. I don’t think Milkovich and Ramirez are here for a fuckin’ hot pastrami.” Grimshaw clicked his teeth. 

“What? Oh—” Ian said, easing off the staring and focusing back on the real problems at hand. He leaned back in his seat, watching them unload boxes into the back warehouse as it all clicked together. “Why is Solano working with Paulie Cantelli?” 

Grimshaw took the binoculars from him, looking for himself. “Looks like they need storage space.” 

Ian rolled his lips. “Storage space my ass. That product will be gone by sunrise.” He retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, jotting down a few critical notes. He stared up at Mickey again. He had a gleaming smile on his face as he talked to Ramirez, his muscles flexed from carrying a heavy box most likely full of laundered cash or cocaine. 

He was on the brink of being wanted for prison capture by the FBI, and here he was, smiling and laughing like he had not a care in the world. 

\--- 

It had been almost a week since Mickey had seen Ian and he couldn’t stop thinking about the night at the Buff. He didn’t know why, though. It was a stupid encounter, and it’s not like Ian was there to see him anyway. He only wanted him for top notch info. 

He remembered him sitting at the bar in his grey slacks and light blue button up, thinking he was hot shit. Regardless of the circumstances, he couldn’t believe he actually sat down at a bar with him and bought him a drink, even after all these years. 

He stared down at the card he handed him that night, flipping it around in his palm. 

**U.S Department of Justice**  
**Federal Bureau of Investigation**  
**Ian C. Gallagher**  
**Special Agent**  
**Chicago Division**

In the bottom right-hand corner was a phone number. 

He wondered where Agent Gallagher was. Maybe he pissed him off enough to drive him away for good and soon some other shmuk would be on the case. 

“You ready?” 

Ricardo came from around the corner of Cantelli’s, tossing him the truck keys. He shoved the card back in his pocket before he could see it. 

He pulled a smoke from his pack. “Let’s roll.” 

Today was going to be a hectic day of pickups, deliveries and drop offs. It was only eight in the morning and Mickey was already dreading the rest of the day. Cut gave them specific instructions for a new loading location on the opposite side of the bay, moving forward with abandoning Finnigan’s port altogether. The tricky part was keeping Finnigan on the string even though they were ditching him, which meant dealing with endless phone calls. 

The other port was owned by the McKeon’s who did better business anyway. At least, that’s what Cut said. Their loads there were going up to Irwin’s then back to Cantelli’s, and back to the docks to be at The Cunning Crow by three. 

The Cunning Crow was a bar and grill just out of the city, a new endeavor Cut was taking on for money movement. He wanted Ricardo and him to meet with the owners and tie a few loose ends to set up the first laundering operation. It was junior stuff, nothing Mickey hadn’t done before, but it meant he’d be busy as shit now, and no time for fucking off. 

They headed to their new loading port, and Mickey’s phone was already blowing up with calls from Duke Finnigan. 

“Fuck. Already?” He snapped, silencing the call. “Motherfucker wants payment.” 

“Well he ain’t getting it. Answer him after we load up the truck and hold him off. Tell him he’ll get his money once we get a sum from Paulie. He knows not to push.” Ricardo explained. 

“Oh, he’s gonna keep pushing after he don’t get his share.” Mickey rebutted, lighting his cigarette. 

“I know, but those are Cut’s orders. He better watch it if he knows what’s good for him.” 

When they got to the port, they waved to Scotty McKeon who was in his office near the parking lot. He was a nice guy, but he was going bankrupt, and doing deals with Solano cartel was probably his last chance at getting ahead on bills. 

Just as they were walking along the dock, two other boats pulled up to the dock and unloaded some product. Mickey and Ricardo did their usual count for good measure and began loading the items into the box truck. This time it was cocaine, straight from Columbia and the purest shit you could get your hands on in the Western hemisphere. Cut had told Mickey and Ricardo to each take a portion to flip over the weekend and turn in their payments early next week. 

Thankfully Chester was the delivery driver which put a little ease on things running smoothly. 

They did their scheduled deliveries and drop offs, and once they wrapped up at Cantelli’s, Mickey answered Duke’s twentieth phone call. 

“What’s up?” 

“What’s up?!” He screamed into the phone. “Where the hell is my money?! You two goons were a fuckin’ no show today. Tell Cut I want my money.” 

“Aye, man. Relax. Cut had to take an emergency trip to Cuba. Finances are tight right now. We’re barely holding it. You’ll get your money.” 

“I want my money by next weekend or there’ll be consequences from the Finnigan’s! You tell that to your fucking boss!” He shouted so loud it hurt Mickey's eardrums. 

“We got a major deal with Cantelli. It’s in the works, then you’ll get paid.” He reasoned.

 _*Click*_

Mickey put his phone back in his pocket, shaking his head in disappointment. “He knows how this shit works. He better keep his cool.” 

“Yep,” Ricardo agreed. “We all know how that goes.” 

Suddenly, there was a thick tension between them as Mickey thought of their conversation with Cut the last time they saw him. He assumed Ricardo was thinking about it too, since the vibes were unavoidable. Still, he didn’t say anything, but Mickey knew his mind was heavy. 

“You wanna head over to the Buff tonight? Push this shit quick?” Mickey offered, trying to change the subject. 

Ricardo smiled. “Man, you know I ain’t going to no fairy club. My homie up on the Northside is buying half tonight. I’ll be good. You go ahead, ese.” 

He smiled back, feeling relieved by the light-heartedness. “Suit yourself.” 

They headed for the peaceful drive out of town. Mickey looked out the window most of the time, knocking back Old Style and smoking weed while bobbing his head to whatever alternative rock was playing on the station. He tried to get drunk to forget everything that was on his mind, but the more beer he consumed, the faster his thoughts ran. 

Ian. Fucking Ian. A god damn FBI agent. A fed? 

He used to steal bottles of Jack Daniels with him from Rich’s liquor and outrun the cops while they chased them down. He used to roll the best fucking joints in the neighborhood, always one tucked in his freckled ear, covered by a tuff of red hair. He used to come to Mickey when he needed to flip a quick ounce for extra cash. He used to take shots with him at the Alibi and they’d walk home drunker than shit, busting windows and causing a ruckus. 

He used to wrap his arms around his waist and whisper nasty things in his ear. He used to bend over the chain-link fence for him at the dugout. 

He used to love him. 

That _ghetto raised, sun-soaked, brand new, first time_ kind of love. That _shot-gunned beer flavored lips_ kind of love. That _abusive parents, needing someone to hold_ kind of love... 

That love he’d probably never feel again. 

He was a fucking fed, just looking to bust him and raise his own salary. 

He was relieved when they finally pulled up to their destination as he was starting to get worked up by his over-thinking. 

It was a hot day. The sun was already burning on his skin as he stepped out of the truck and walked towards the entrance. The Crow was a dark, gloomy looking place, but it had high traffic and was overlooked by authorities. It was quiet; it didn’t draw any questionable attention which is most likely why Cut was interested in pushing money through it. 

The lot was mostly empty, a few beaters in the front for the elderly lunch crowd. Ricardo led the way, opening the door when they were instantly hit with a cool breeze from the air conditioning. Inside it was dimly lit with a few scattered customers dining and drinking cheap beer at the bar. 

“Can I help you?” 

A short younger woman with a large bust greeted them from the host booth. 

“We’re here to see Victor.” Ricardo said. 

“Right this way.” The woman made a serious face, leading the way behind the main dining room and into another doorway towards the back. 

They followed her into a larger dining area that was much brighter than the other room. There were several bay windows with the curtains open, and every table was set with plates and silverware. In the middle of the room was a small table where a man sat with dark aviator sunglasses on. They approached him, and he smiled, holding his hands out and offering for them to take a seat. 

“Greetings.” 

Mickey nodded and gave him a half-tuirned smiled. 

“I can’t chat for long. I’ve got a restaurant to run but I’ve spoken with Cut and he said this will be a wonderful business decision for both of us.” 

He noticed that Victor was speaking to them but looking somewhere aimlessly in the distance. He was blind. 

“Yes,” Ricardo replied. “Cut is optimistic about working with you. As are we.” 

“Fantastic. We have agreed on 10% and a kilo of the Columbian snow every month. My wife likes it.” He admitted. 

Mickey grinned. “It’s good shit.” 

“That it is,” Victor showed his teeth which were not in good shape. “Cecelia will explain to you how we’ll be operating. Any questions?” 

Ricardo glanced at Mickey before answering. “I don’t think so. Pleasure doing business with you.” 

“You as well.” 

Each of them shook his hand. 

Cecelia made them follow her again and gave them a tour of the entire restaurant, from the office to the walk-in freezer. It was pretty simple. Just your typical racketeering over burgers and soup. 

The loading truck would drop off a delivery of food items for the week which they would transfer into the back freezer. Late at night, a few other members would come and pick up the cash and take it elsewhere. Cut had some accounts that were handled at a few offshore banks. They didn’t get too much into the legal side of things, mostly just the illegal parts... 

In reality, this was an easy operation and nothing major by any means. The feds could easily bust down the doors at any given moment, do a search and discover the illegal money movement without so much as lifting a finger, but the inside details were sneaky. Sneaky because Ricardo and Mickey were both legally on the books. They were on paper. They were getting a reported income; Ricardo a server and Mickey a cook. This was supposedly their job and they were employed. Plus, it was on the outskirts of the city. The feds were focused on the urban street deals, not joe-shmoe diners out in the sticks. 

Agent Firecrotch would never outsmart him. He had nothing to worry about. 

He was, however, concerned with the little flip his stomach did when he was reminded of him. It didn’t matter, though... He wouldn’t be conversing with Ian Gallagher again. 

\--- 

Ian was supposed to be working on some documents in his office. He had a few deadlines to meet and had to submit the request for a search warrant. He found himself sitting at his desk, tapping his pen on his temple, completely distracted. He was trying to focus, to pay attention, to get shit done, but it was virtually impossible. Maybe he needed to tell Larsen he had a sour stomach, and that he needed the day off. He needed to rest and come back tomorrow to try again. 

Once he made up his mind, he shut his computer down, gathering his files. Just when he was about to leave the door busted open. It was Larsen. 

“Hey big guy,” He greeted, smiling widely. “I just wanted to chat with you real quick. I know you’ve got work today but I’ve been thinking...” 

Ian changed his mind, sitting back down to listen. 

“We’ve got a huge advantage here. Do you realize that?” Larsen had wide eyes, like he was really onto something. 

Ian stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Milkovich. Your ex. You need to use that as best you can.” He handed him another stack of files. “He’s a low-life criminal shitbag. Seeing his new successful, sexy exboyfriend must make him lose sleep at night.” 

“Sir—” 

“I know, it sounds crazy. But this is the FBI, Gallagher, and sometimes we have to do what we have to do. Smother him. Get him on your side. Seduce him a little. Shmooze him.” 

“Sir, I’m on my way to get the search warrant approved to search his apartment. I don’t know if he’s going to be very pleased--” 

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll get over it. Once you propose the deal, he’ll start to crack. I’ve seen these things countless times, Gallagher. I know what I’m doing. Just take it from me, alright?” He stood up from his seat again, looking flustered, about to walk out when he turned back towards his desk, pointing at the files. “Here’s some new info on him. We don’t know how much truth it holds but it’s always good to have. Call me if you need anything.” 

The door slammed shut so hard his office window vibrated. He sunk back down in his seat, sighing as he realized he probably wasn’t going home any time soon. He opened the files with little enthusiasm, scanning over some of the new information. There was really nothing he didn’t already know. Mickey still had no friends, no new hobbies. Not really any new locations he frequented. He flipped to the third page when he stopped. 

There was a mugshot paper-clipped to the top of the page. Written in black sharpie was scribbled handwriting. 

_Seth Morgan Foster_

_Possible love interest_

“Love interest?” Ian said aloud, staring at the photo. The kid was probably no more than 21, with a small build and a lip piercing. He had spiky tips and wore thick dark eyeliner which was horrendously smeared. 

He kept reading, skimming the paragraphs below. He had been in jail more times than Ian could count, once for prostituting and multiple times for illegal contraband. 

“This is who you fuck?” He whispered, reaching for his iced coffee and taking a long sip. “Jesus, Mick.” He tosed the papers aside. 

Mick. _Mick?_ He hadn’t called him that in over 12 years. He had a heart palpation as he thought of it. 

Dinggg. Dinggg. Dinggg. 

He almost fell out of his seat when he heard the booming ring of his phone. He glanced at it, Blake’s contact ID showing on the screen. For whatever reason, he closed the file shut as if to hide it from his sight. 

“Hey, baby.” Ian said sweetly, staring at his watch. 

“Hi,” Blake spoke sternly into the phone. “Are you going to be home for dinner tonight? I’m making cauliflower cheese pizza. You loved it last time.” 

Ian bit his lip nervously. “Oh yeah, that was good, wasn’t it? I got a few things to wrap up here and then I’ll head your way. Want me to stop and bring anything?” 

“Hmm, can you pick up a bottle of that wine we had last time? I couldn’t find it at Henry’s.” 

Ian’s eyes shifted, racking his brain to remember the wine they had last time. He felt like saying they all tasted the exact same to him: like bitter liquefied grapes. 

“Uh, sure. Remind me which one that was again?” He asked politely. 

“The Grimora Zinfandel, Ian.” He said, his snotty tone obvious to pick up on, even through the phone. 

“Oh yeah! Right. Right... Sure. I’ll go pick that up at Rich’s. They got everything.” He explained. 

They concluded the conversation and Ian headed for the liquor store. He was in his Corolla since he had taken the rest of the night off. Rich’s liquor was right up the hill, just a hop skip and a jump from the office. He parallel parked into a spot on the side. 

He walked in, immediately heading for the wine isle. His eyes scanned every bottle and he almost got a headache reading each one. They all looked the same and had overly-confusing names that he could barely pronounce. Finally, he found Blake’s Grimora. He did remember it actually, based off the label. There was a dragon on the front of the bottle. He remembered pouring a glass for Blake the pervious weekend. The dragon looked remarkably similar to Mickey’s dragon tattoo on his chest. The one he only saw the tip of through his tank top in the alleyway... 

Too bad you couldn’t pay Mickey to even touch a bottle of wine, though he did remembered they stole a bottle from Fiona when they were kids. It was after their shifts at the Kash and Grab. They took a walk down to the Gallagher’s and Ian swiped it from under her bed. They drank it under the L and were surprisingly wasted. Then they fucked under the rails, right between one of the cement podiums... 

He shook his head as if to shake the thoughts from his mind, hoping they would float away and disappear like dust particles. He grabbed the bottle and walked up to the register to check out. But then, he stopped in his tracks. There was a beautiful display of Pendleton whiskey sitting next to the check-out. It was as if it was calling his name... 

He shrugged, grabbing a bottle off the shelf. 

He paid for his booze, hopped back into his Corolla and headed for home. 

\--- 

He decided dinner was pretty decent. If you chewed a certain way the cauliflower actually had a similar crust-like texture, so it was tolerable, and it seemed to fill him up. Ian had polished most of the wine off himself, only after Blake yelled at him, saying that wine wasn’t for chugging and was to be casually sipped. 

They sat on the couch together, Blake resting his head in Ian’s lap. It was peaceful, and the dragon wine seemed to be take the edge off. He suggested watching Pulp Fiction, a favorite of his, but Blake couldn’t miss another episode of This Is Us, so he agreed. 

When his show finally finished, Ian noticed Blake fell asleep in his lap. He shut the TV off immediately when he heard him snoring. He gently lifted his head off of him and set him on the couch. 

He went into the office, a small space in the back of their condo that was mostly used for Blake’s software material, but Ian had a little area for his cases. There was a file cabinet, a few reports, some old books and his Mac laptop. He felt like he was slacking on the case. That he wasn’t giving his all. That he was too distracted with lingering thoughts. 

The dragon wine seemed to be giving him some sudden, striking motivation. 

He opened up his briefcase, spreading the files along his desk. He thought of Salvador, pondering his next move. The man was invincible practically, much like catching smoke, but Ian had to get tangible evidence of where he was. He needed eyes on him. He needed to be committed to the chase. 

It didn’t matter if Mickey Milkovich was his witness. And, Larsen was right. He needed to get him on his side. Though Larsen seemed to not know Mickey at all to think he would be fooled so easily but it was his job, after all. 

He looked at the clock. 

9:32 

He grabbed his coat and headed back to the Southside. 

Investigating in his personal car was absolutely prohibited, but it was his night off. No one would know... And he had work to do. He hopped back into his Corolla and took the 15-minute drive to the city. It was late but the streets were just coming alive. Locals were walking along the sidewalks, dressed in their party attire and ready for a night out on the town. Though the sun had set, the summer heat was still prevalent as people wore tanks and miniskirts. 

Ian decided to start from square one: back to Mickey’s apartment where he saw the light on in his bedroom window. A few more blocks down and he was on his street where he parked discretely across his complex, tucked between a diesel truck and mini-van. It was hot as hell once he turned off the engine and cut off the A/C. He rolled his windows down for some air as he got settled, leaning his eat back to stare back up at Mickey’s window. The light was still on. 

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, really. Here he was, sitting in front of his home, waiting for something to happen. It’s not like he could go knock on the door. 

He sat and waited. 

And waited. 

Still staring up at the light in the window. 

After at least a half hour of sitting, suddenly, by some miracle, the light shut off. 

Ian’s heart jumped, and he had no clue as to why. He was probably just going to bed. 

He sat back in his seat again, leaning against the head-rest. “What the fuck am I doing?” He muttered to himself. He was just about to turn on the engine when his heart jumped _again._

Mickey was walking out his apartment complex, heading towards the main road to exit the neighborhood. 

He was walking briskly, smoking a cigarette with a backpack on his shoulders. He was wearing a black v-neck and a pair of black plaid shorts that matched. The arms of the shirt looked incredibly tight around his biceps which were very prominent now, more so than when he was younger. He was texting on his phone, leaving the cigarette in his mouth as he typed, and blowing smoke out of the corner of his lips. 

Ian watched him walk right passed his car as he stiffened into his seat, hoping he wouldn’t spot him. Thankfully, he walked right on by without hesitation. 

This presented itself to be a perfect opportunity. 

He waited another five minutes or so, still able to spot Mickey in his rear-view mirror before starting his car and following close behind him. Every few blocks he would sit idle, making sure he was still distanced. He made cuts through a few alleyways where Ian would meet him as he popped through the other side, until finally, he seemed to have reached his destination. 

Ian couldn’t even recall the last time he was at The White Swallow, but it still looked exactly the same; run-down, shabby, and the usual bottom feeders were outside the door begging for money. He once again parked his car across the street where he could keep his eyes on the place but also remain out of sight. 

He bit his lip, thinking about what to do next. He was in regular clothes, not his usual business get-up he had to wear when he was working. He tapped the steering wheel, watching several people enter and exit through the front doors. He took a deep breath, turned off the car and stepped out onto the street. He looked around him, just to be sure, and headed for the door. 

Before he even entered the building there were already random, thirsty men trying to talk to him. He smiled at them awkwardly before he nicely declined their creepy, suggestive offers. He scrambled to the bar before anyone else approached him. He ordered a glass of house chardonnay as he took a seat at one of the incredibly tacky plastic bar-stools near the back. He kept his eyes peeled on the crowd, looking for any sign of Mickey as he sipped his wine with no particular enthusiasm. 

The place was decently packed for a weeknight, Ian noticed, and all stages were occupied with a dancer, surrounded by men who were throwing cash at them. Mickey must have really enjoyed these places seeing as he visited them often. 

Ian ordered two more drinks before he finally found Mickey in the mass of drunk, drugged and sweaty people. 

He was standing near the back bathroom talking to a male who was much shorter than him. He whispered something in his ear and swung his backpack around his shoulder. 

He knew what was happening. 

Ian reached for his phone from in his pocket, zoomed in, and snapped a pic of the deal as it took place. It was perfect evidence, and more fuel to use against Mickey for questioning later. He was pleased with himself, paying for his tab and exiting the building. He was a little buzzed, but fine to drive. 

He got into his car and sat for a moment, his mind wandering into nowhere. 

He had the perfect piece of the puzzle to basically frame Mickey and threaten him with jail time if he didn’t lead him to Salvador, but his brain quickly shifted to those biceps peeking out of that black shirt, nearly tearing the fabric... 

“You stalkin’ me now Gallagher?” 

Ian jumped out of his fucking seat so intensely he banged his head on the roof of the car. He looked out the passenger side window to see him standing there. 

The glare of headlights from the passing cars shined on his pale face, illuminating the color in his eyes. He had a smirk on his face. 

_Keep it fucking cool. Don’t let him sense anything._

Ian swallowed heavily, almost choking on his own saliva before responding. “Nah. Not stalking. Just came here to see some of the dancers.” 

Mickey stared, his eyes narrow. 

“Looks like you’re the one stalking me, considering you just walked up to my car and peered in the window.” Ian looked up at him, pretending to be completely unfazed by his approach. 

He let out a little amused chuckle. “So, you take the night off to come drool over some horny twinks? Don’t you have cases you should be on? Like mine?” 

Ian shrugged. “I’m on yours right now, actually.” 

He laughed again, this time more lively. “Of course you are. You always drink and drive on the job?” 

Confused, Ian stared at him. Did he see him in the club snapping pictures of him from the bar as he drank his glasses of wine? He followed Mickey’s eyes which were fixed on the passenger's seat. The bottle of whiskey was sitting there untouched as if it came along for the ride. 

“Oh,” He started. “That’s just something I bought for later.” 

He sounded like a complete fucking idiot. He wanted to start the car and drive it into a ditch to avoid the conversation entirely. 

“Switched back to your original poison, huh? No more of that wine shit?” He asked as he pulled his pack of Marbs from his pocket, a sultry grin on his flawless face. 

Ian felt uncomfortable, not knowing how to respond considering the only reason he bought the whiskey in the first place was because of _him._

To Ian's shock, Mickey grabbed the neck of the bottle from the seat, pulling it through the window and removing the seal. He held it to his lips, tipping it upward and chugging a few lengthy gulps before screwing the cap back on and returning it to its spot on the seat. 

“You could have asked.” Ian said, tilting his head up to see him through the window. 

“Nah,” He said, belching and wiping his mouth. “Then you would have said no.” 

“You don’t know that...” Ian responded, still staring up at him, not really sure where this was going. 

“Bullshit. I know you like the back of my hand, Gallagher.” He held the cigarette to his lips, cupping his palm around his lighter to spark it. He succeeded, taking a hefty drag before leaning back down in the window. “By the way, before you walk into the place I hit up all the time and drink your foo-foo wine at the bar just to watch me, wear a hoodie so I don’t spot your flaming fuckin’ hair. Looks like you’re the real stalker here, Firecrotch.” 

He spit on the sidewalk before turning away and storming off. 

“Fuck!” Ian slammed his hand into the steering wheel, feeling completely enraged. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, his mind racing. 

Unable to think clearly, he grabbed the whiskey, got out of his car and locked the door. He chased Mickey down, finally catching up to him. 

“Hey,” He said, panting from his run. “What do you say we drink this, huh?” He shook the bottle in his hand. 

Mickey laughed hysterically, placing his hand over his belly to hold the laughter. “You know, I thought you really lost it back when you went to the nut house years ago, but now you’ve really gone wacko...” 

“Come on. For old times’ sake.” Ian grinned. 

Mickey glared at him. “Fuck no.” 

“Why not?” 

“Gee, I don’t know... Maybe cause you’re a fuckin’ fed and I’m a criminal who you want to investigate just so you can line your pockets next quarter. Fuck off, I’m not interested.” Mickey turned away again, speed walking towards the inner city. 

“You got my card, Milkovich!” Ian shouted back at him. 

He might have smiled just a little too big when he saw Mickey turn around to flip him off, with both hands... 

Ian was tempted to get back in the car and keep following him, but he knew Mickey was smarter than that. He was probably changing his plans, making different arrangements to avoid him at all costs. 

Besides, sleep sounded better anyway, though he wasn’t sure if his “back of the hand” line would leave his head...


	6. The Heirophant

The first delivery at the restaurant was nearly two hours delayed. 

Mickey was cussing under his breath, pacing back and forth in the lot as he frantically made calls to rearrange the schedule for the day. He and Ricardo were supposed to be at the docks to pick up another load. Not to mention Duke was still blowing up his phone; it was constantly beeping with a call waiting. 

“I’m about to knock this motherfucker out.” Mickey stated, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth. He was tapping his leg, trying to type a text when a call from Duke came in again. 

“You won’t have to, ese.” Ricardo piped in. “I talked to Cut this morning. He knows Finnigan is a loose cannon.” 

And that’s all it took. 

One conversation with Cut about a previous customer demanding payment or interrupting procedures and it would be their last phone call. 

Cut had special guys who did his dirty work. Unlike Ricardo and Mickey who were hands on, making deliveries and pickups- there were others who did the whacks, if it wasn’t Cut himself. 

Mickey was unsure what his angle was but asking Ricardo to put a hit on someone was unsettling. Maybe it was a test of loyalty, or proof of alliance, but it was a disturbing thought as he had never, ever asked either of them to kill someone. Ricardo remained quiet about it, and Mickey avoided bringing it up altogether. 

He passed him a joint and Mickey took a few long drags, letting it relax him a bit. They sat together in silence, sitting on old, beaten egg crates until finally the delivery truck pulled into the lot. 

“About fucking time,” Mickey muttered as he walked up to the driver’s side door, studying who was in the seat. It was a short man with a baseball cap and a load of dip in his mouth. He hopped out of the truck swiftly, walking around the back without a word, and lifting up the door hatch. 

They began unloading boxes of frozen product into the walk-in freezer and stacking them neatly in their designated places. Mickey was moving fast, trying to get everything in as quick as possible so they could move onto the next deal for the day. 

They handed the man his stack of cash and continued on. Mickey sent Cut a text letting him know they were back on schedule. 

On the drive back to the docks, Mickey noticed his phone had stopped ringing. 

The calls from Duke Finnigan asking for payment stopped coming through... 

After two more dock trips with offload’s to Cantelli’s, their job was done for the day. Mickey was exhausted, but he couldn’t pass up Ricardo’s offer to hang at his house for a while. 

They entered his silent home, being sure to make their steps quiet as they headed for the backdoor. The twins were sound asleep in their beds and Vanessa was snoring on the living room couch, a CSI rerun on the TV.

She had their backyard set up beautifully. They had comfortable outdoor furniture and a wide awning stringed with luminescent lights. There was an admirable garden where she spent most of her free time tending to, and a distant fountain somewhere in the flowers that made a tranquil trickling sound. Mickey liked to spend time here when he wasn’t hustling on the streets or doing deals. It was peaceful. 

The two of them polished off a 12 rack, sitting under the lighted awning and enjoying the summer breeze. Ricardo was chatty tonight, cracking jokes and making conversation. 

“You need to find you a good man, vato.” He said, taking the last sip of his beer. 

Mickey laughed nervously, ripping off the paper label on his beer bottle. “Yeah. Maybe when I’m retired from cartel business.” 

Ricardo shrugged, tossing his bottle in the bin next to him. “Nah. You can find a good man now. Everyone deserves somebody.” 

“I had a good man once.” Mickey blurted out. He wasn’t sure what made him say it, but he felt it was right. 

Ricardo shifted in his seat, his attention fully focused on him. “You did?” 

He nodded, unable to avoid his cracking smile. “I mean, I was young or whatever, but yeah...” 

“Ese, why you don’t tell me these things?!” He nudged him in the shoulder. “What happened to your man?” 

Mickey chuckled at Ricardo’s excitement for the subject. He still played with the label on the bottle, finally peeling the whole thing off. “He was supposed to come with me to Mexico but uh—it just didn’t work out.” 

He nodded. “I feel that. The one that got away. Did you love him?” 

He paused. He looked up at Ricardo, meeting his eyes, and suddenly, everything replayed in his mind, like a reel of film rewinding back through years of tape. 

The Kash and Grab. Terry trying to ruin them. Coming out at the Alibi. The psych-ward. The shit with his skanky sister. The day he left him at the border... 

“Yeah. I did.” He finally replied, almost surprised with his answer. “He’s still in the city.” He was sure to keep to himself about the whole “federal agent” thing. 

“No shit?” Ricardo pressed. “Why don’t you link with him? See what’s up?” 

He scratched the back of his neck. “Nah, man. I don’t think so...” 

“Why not? What’s stopping you from rekindling that flame?” Ricardo smiled, playfully nudging him again. 

He selected his words carefully. “He’s a little fuckin’ different now. Let’s just say he went down a way straighter path than me.” He smirked into the bottle, his pressured breath echoing in the glass. 

Ricardo was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin as he appeared to be thinking. “So what? Nothing wrong with that. People change, old feelings don’t.” 

His skin broke out in a series of chills when the words entered his ears. 

“I don’t wanna do this hit.” 

Suddenly, the mood shifted once the topic of the conversation changed. 

Mickey wasn’t expecting him to make a comment about it, but the alcohol must have been doing a number on him. He looked at him apologetically, not really knowing how to respond. 

“Cut has guys who do this shit. This ain’t our job, ese. We are supposed to be on the side lines. The middle men. Not the bottom feeders.” Ricardo was leaned forward in his seat, looking especially glum. “And you know what happens If I don’t do it.” 

Mickey swallowed, desperate for saliva as his mouth became dry. He didn’t even want to think of the repercussions of Ricardo not following through. Even after all the loyalty they had for him, after all the years they worked for him, he would execute them without batting an eye if he needed to. 

“Maybe he’ll change his mind.” Mickey suggested, trying to be positive. “You know how he is these days... Always changing plans and shit.” 

Ricardo rubbed his chin pensively again. “It’s all that clear he’s smoking. He’s losing his fuckin’ mind.” 

Mickey nodded in agreement. “Which is exactly why shit will probably change. Don’t sweat it right now. We have to keep a level head for the new deal with Victor, and we want the Lucianos to appreciate our business.” 

He was talking out of his ass, saying anything in the hopes that Ricardo wouldn’t stress about the situation, but there was nothing he could do to change it. Soon, Mickey would be heading to Mexico with Cut, which meant Ricardo had to take care of business... 

\--- 

By the end of the night, Ricardo was absolutely obliterated. Mickey helped him get into bed, threw a blanket over him and left the house, making sure the door was locked behind him. He headed out for the streets, walking his way through the neighborhood to a quick detour through downtown before he got to his apartment. He smoked a cigarette on his way, flicking the butt onto the sidewalk before entering the lobby when he was greeted by someone sitting on the front steps. 

“Hey,” It was Seth. He was wearing an over-sized sweatshirt, the sleeves hanging down over his short arms. He looked like a train-wreck and smelled of heroin. 

Mickey looked around, confused. “Hey...” 

“Can I stay here for the night?” He asked, looking at the ground shamefully. 

Mickey sighed, rubbing his eyes from his exhaustion. “Yeah, whatever I guess.” 

He didn’t have the energy to debate with him. They didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the night, besides when Mickey told him to turn around on his bed... 

\--- 

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Mickey startled, bolting out of bed to the booming sound of pounding knocks on his door. His heart began to race significantly as he stood up to put his pants on. He glanced at the clock by his bed. 7:12AM. 

“Shit,” He muttered as he walked towards the door while it continued to pound. He opened it to find Ian Gallagher standing there, his fiery red hair shining under the hallway light. 

He smiled at him. “Morning, Sunshine.” 

Mickey ignored his greeting, wiping some sleep from his eyes. “You got a fuckin’ warrant?” He asked. 

Ian pulled out a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit and flashed it in his face, pointing to the judge's signature. There was the wonderful notary stamp, pressed in red ink. 

“You’re smarter than I fuckin’ thought.” Mickey snapped as he pushed his door open. 

He was screwed. 

Not so much screwed in the sense that he was “dead” or going to prison, but screwed because they were going to find things in his apartment. Things that would end up being used against him in court. Things that the FBI could use in a plea deal to hang over his head... 

“I guess you’re not here to polish of that bottle of whiskey huh?” Mickey teased, sticking his tongue out amusingly as he watched Ian and the two other men begin to sort through his belongings. 

Ian glared at him while he snapped a latex glove on his hand. 

“I’m going to ask you to wait outside, Milkovich. And,” He looked behind him, glancing at Seth who was still half-nude. “Mr.Foster, go somewhere. Anywhere but here.” 

\--- 

Mickey waited outside in the dim lit hallway, ignoring Seth as he exited the apartment building, looking spooked by the surprise FBI search. He stared up at the ceiling knowing this was going to be an absolute shit show. The fact that he knew Seth’s name was unsettling, which mean he had a tighter grip on his whereabouts than he suspected. 

He bonked his head on the wall a few times, rolling his lips in boredom as he waited for them to finish up. 

After a few more minutes, Ian finally came out, a small notepad in his hands. 

“Two kilos of cocaine, four illegal firearms with manually removed serial numbers and over three thousand dollars in cash.” 

“Cash ain’t illegal.” He rebutted. 

“It is when you earn it illegally.” He winked, shoving the pen behind his ear. 

“Where’s all my confiscated shit then?” Mickey asked in concern. 

“It’s still in there. This is just for our records.” He smiled maliciously. 

Mickey laughed sarcastically. “So, you just come in here and search my place to keep a record of what I got, then use it against me later? That’s some crooked ass fed bullshit if I’ve ever seen it.” 

Ian surrendered his hands in the air. “It’s just my job, Milkovich. Remember, you got my card if you want to report anything.” 

He sized him up conspicuously before walking away, a challenging look on his face, and Mickey felt a little jolt in his groin from the excitement. He watched him walk down the hallway, and he might have looked a little too closely at his ass in those navy slacks... 

“Hate to see you go but love to watch you leave!” He shouted down the hallway. 

He probably shouldn’t have said anything. He probably should have just shut the fuck up. 

But for whatever reason, _he couldn’t help it._

And he was absolutely pleased when Ian turned his head to respond. 

“Makes sense!” 

Mickey laughed. A stupid little cheerful giggle that escaped his lips without any resistance. He leaned his head back on the wall, shaking it in disbelief. “Dumb motherfucker.” He whispered through a smile. 

\--- 

Ian was back at the office by lunch, and thankfully, the place was quiet. Most of the departments were out for their lunch or on the field. He was sitting in his desk chair, staring out at the high rise buildings in the distance, extremely deep in thought. 

He should have been thinking about the case, about finding the illegal contraband in Mickey’s apartment which would push things further into getting him to buckle, but he was more concerned with something else he found. 

He stared at the photo in his hand. 

It was a picture of Ian when he was 16, wearing a beanie and flipping off the camera. He remembered Mickey taking the picture many years ago and after all this time, he still had it. He probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone as he found it under a few dusty old books he must have read in prison. 

And his little one-liner kept playing in his head...

 _Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave._

“Stupid ass,” He whispered, a smile creeping up on his face. 

He felt like slapping himself. He quickly forced his face to change into one more serious. He flipped around in his desk chair to go through his notes. 

He had created his own makeshift web about Mickey’s possibly ties to the cartel. He noted him being at Cantelli’s meat shop, unloading some kind of product, and how the Luciano’s could be a ring-leader in cartel business. 

He also considered investigating Seth Foster, whom he had seen naked next to Mickey, probably waking up next to him after a night of fucking. It made Ian sick to think about it, but he brushed it off. After all, he was in a serious relationship, regardless of the fact that Mickey was a criminal and he was an FBI agent. 

Ian grabbed his phone from the top of his desk and dialed Blake. 

“Hello?” 

He answered. Ian smiled. 

“Hey. Whatya’ doing?” He asked, trying to sound enthusiastic. 

“Just working on this stupid fucking corrupt software. God, it’s a bitch. What about you?” 

“I’m just at the office. Just wanted to see how you were doing. I miss you.” 

“Miss you. Don’t forget brunch with my parents' next weekend. Remember? At that cute little restaurant outside of town?” 

“Oh, of course,” He lied. “I wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Gotta go. See you at the house.” 

Ian stared at his phone when it beeped, ending the call. 

He leaned back in his seat, staring blankly at the ceiling, thinking. He needed a fucking break. 

A trip to his cabin was in order. 

\--- 

Ian woke up at the crack of dawn, already brewing coffee in his Keurig and packing a small bag of clothing for his trip. He was excited that he would be going away for a couple days to get away from all the madness and the pressures from work. He threw a few outfits in the bag, relieved to leave behind all of his expensive, itchy work suits. He zipped his duffle bag quickly, trying to be quiet, but the noise seemed to wake Blake as he shifted in the sheets for a moment, peeking out over the covers. 

“What’re you doing?” He asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning. 

Ian smiled, walking around the side of the bed and sitting next to him. 

“I was going to head up to the lake for the weekend if that’s alright with you.” He spoke softly, grabbing his hand and pulling it up to his mouth to plant small kisses on his fingers. 

Blake groaned, covering his head with the comforter. “Fine. But answer your damn phone this time.” 

He patted his leg. “I will. I love you.” 

Blake was already back to sleep, snoring obnoxiously. 

\--- 

Mickey wasn’t in the mood for working today. 

He slept like shit the night before, tossing and turning, completely restless and unable to relax. He was stressed which was typically the territory that came with his job, but lately, he was on edge. His trip to Mexico was approaching fast, which meant Ricardo had to implement the hit while they were gone. 

He tried to distract himself with the usual poisons: weed, alcohol and maybe a line of blow here and there, but that only worked for so long. The drugs and booze were merely band-aids to temporarily place over his wounds. 

His phone was already blowing up with calls and texts. He answered once he saw Ricardo’s contact flash on the screen. He lazily retrieved his phone from the nightstand, pressing the green button. 

“Hey.” 

“Rise and shine, Pumpkin.” Ricardo chimed, sounding much too cheerful for seven in the morning. “Head over to the Crow at around 9. Also need you to stop by Home Depot. We need a lock for the walk-in. One of those padlocks.” 

Mickey rubbed his eyes again, sitting up in his bed and stretching his arms back behind his head. “You need a what now?” 

“A padlock. One of those heavy-duty ones. With a combination. This one here broke.” 

“And it’s our fuckin’ job to replace it?” He growled. 

Ricardo chuckled into the phone. “If we wanna use the place, yeah.” 

He sighed. “Whatever. I’m getting up now. I’ll see you when I see you.”

He hung-up his phone and tossed it on the bed, stretching once more before he finally got up. He reached for his pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and immediately lit up, taking a relaxing drag, mentally preparing himself for the day. Once he finished his Marb, he grabbed some rolling papers, gently spreading one on the flat surface as he sprinkled a few pinches of sticky weed into the middle. Once he rolled it into an immaculate joint, he sparked it; his tiny apartment instantly filling with a cloud of smoke. 

After he was acceptably stoned, he started getting ready, searching for any clean clothes he could find in his mess of a room. A trip to Darcie’s laundry was much overdue. He rummaged through some piles until he found a purple V-neck and a pair of dark washed jeans. He brushed his teeth, styled his hair, slipped on his shoes and grabbed his backpack, heading out the door for another long day of work. 

Home Depot was around the backside of Gibson street and quite a long walk from his apartment. The mid-summer Chicago heat was already starting to blaze off the sidewalks, causing Mickey to sweat in his clean shirt. He smoked a few cigs and a joint on the way, telling some bums to fuck off when they tried to beg for a donation. 

When he finally arrived, he barged through the sliding doors, hurrying to the right department to get it done and over with. He walked down isle nine, passing the lumber section at the end of the store. He must have not been paying very much attention as he slammed into the shoulder of another person on his way. He glanced back, apologizing. 

“My bad—” 

Suddenly, the familiar scent of a fruity, invigorating cologne filled his nostrils. He did a double take with his eyes, finally recognizing who he had bumped into. 

Tall, buff, pale skin, freckles, red hair... 

What were the fucking _odds?_

He stared up at him, studying him and his normal clothes, looking obscure not wearing a suit. He was in a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a lowcut blue striped tank, revealing a little tuff of red chest hair. 

“ _Gallagher?_ ” 

Ian looked his shoulder, his eyes blinking in obvious surprise. 

“Oh—Uh. Hi.” He turned his body around, staring at him with a closed-mouth smile. 

This was undoubtedly awkward. Mickey should have just kept on walking, ignoring him altogether. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He questioned, trying to make innocent small-talk but failing miserably. 

"Oh I’m just uh, buying some materials.“ He answered, staring up at the high rows of stacked wood. 

“This what you do on your day off?” He asked curiously. 

Ian snickered. “I have a cabin up on Lake Michigan I’m uh—fixing up.” 

Mickey nodded, still feeling painfully uncomfortable. “So, part FBI agent, part home renovator?” 

He laughed again, a chiming noise that echoed in his ears. “Sort of? I built it, actually.” 

Mickey took a few moments to process his words. 

Ian Gallagher built a cabin on Lake Michigan? 

“You built a cabin? By yourself?” He asked, trying not to sound too interested. 

Ian shrugged. “Yeah. Just a little side project, I guess.” 

Just then Mickey’s phone rang from inside his pocket, which made the situation even more awkward. 

“Saved by the bell.” Ian said sarcastically. 

He pulled his phone out to peek at it, silencing the ringer. “Well, I got work to do.” 

Ian smiled. “I’m sure you do. Stay safe.” 

Mickey wasn’t sure how to conclude the conversation. He gave him a weak smile and a nod back without really saying anything as he slowly backed away, continuing his search around the store. 

On the inside, he was a fucking _wreck_. 

He hadn’t seen the man in well over a decade, but now since he was on his case, he was popping up literally everywhere he went. His palms were sweating, and not from the mid-Summer Chicago heat... 

He turned down an isle abruptly, leaning against a row of light bulbs. He closed his eyes, sighing, collecting himself and controlling his breathing. He decided to move slowly, hoping-- _praying_ -that he gave Ian enough time to gather his things, pay for them and leave the store. He wanted to avoid another uncomfortable encounter at all costs. 

He tried to keep his mind from going on an anxiety-fueled rampage, but he was having a hard time. 

He scanned the isles, finally somehow getting to the section of locks. 

What did the cabin look like? How long did it take him to build it? Did he go there alone? 

The curiosity was eating at him. 

He grabbed the most expensive padlock he could find on account of Ricardo’s request and headed for the register. 

\--- 

Mickey installed the padlock himself, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. Ricardo was at his side shouting numbers in his ear to make for the combination. Ignoring him, Mickey inputted a random code that popped in his head. 

**050996**

Mickey gave him the code, repeating it to him and forcing him to write it in is phone. 

“What is this, your old boyfriend’s birthday or something?” He laughed. He flipped him off. 

Their day was another chaotic mess of bullshit, but they had to keep it cool when they were on the lines at Victor’s restaurant. They were new customers, so they had to make a decent impression to keep them in good standing. Showing they were disorganized and under stress would be a mistake. 

Their first load got there around 2PM, and Mickey unloaded it quickly into the walk-in, Ricardo assisting him in the process. When everything was loaded in its proper place, Mickey’s next directions were to give Ceceilia the combo and give Victor’s crew the heads up that the goods were ready to be picked up and transported again. Meanwhile, there was another load ready for pickup at the docks and Ricardo needed to tie a few loose ends at the restaurant, so Mickey took the box truck and headed for the docks solo. 

He drove the truck like a bat out of hell, trying to make deadlines as quick as possible. He showed up, walking down to the docks and confirming with Chester that everything was there, double checking the count. This time it was cocaine, and Mickey snuck a pound in his backpack for his own profit. It wasn’t the first time he had done it, and no one ever noticed. 

Chester was pissed he had to help load the product, but Mickey cussed him out, telling him if he had a problem than he could discuss it with the Gallegos cartel. 

Half the load was going to Cantelli’s, and the other half was going to Shockwave, a gay club on the Eastside that Mickey rarely had to drop off at, but Cut was making moves all around the city lately. He had a few stops to make along the way for some inside errands. He had to pick up a few AK’s from Stromer ave and deliver them up the street to Chi-City Pawn. Larry, the shop owner, had been giving them grief about taking too long on their deliveries, and threatening to underpay if it continued. Mickey’s job was to rough him up a bit and get him to back off. 

Finally, after a few unexpected delays and a flat tire, Mickey arrived for his last stop at Shockwave. 

The place was nice—way nice—compared to The Swallow and The Fairy Tail. Even the Buff. It was only a few years old and incredibly clean. There also wasn’t a line of bums outside the joint, nodding out or grabbing onto people like leeches. 

He parked the truck in the back, walking up to the back door and greeting Alan, the friendly security guy who was always on shift when he arrived. Alan called out a few other guys from inside to unload into the back warehouse, and Mickey smoked a joint on the other side of the truck, unwinding from a long day. 

He didn’t know why, but he found himself holding Ian Gallagher’s card in the palm of his hand again. He was staring down at it, repeating the phone number in his head. He pulled his phone from his pocket, biting his lip and entering the number in the keypad. 

Contact name: Firecrotch 

He smiled after he typed it out, finding it amusing. 

“Milkovich!” 

Mickey shoved his phone back in his pocket, walking around the back of the truck. 

“We’re good here. You can go.” Alan said as he waved him down. 

Mickey waved back. “Alright. Thanks man. I’m gonna come in for a drink real quick.” 

He stepped into the club and the instant sound of the vibrating base rang in his ears. He headed to towards the bar which was decorated with bright LED lights around the base, so the whole thing was rotating in colors. It was visually pleasing, and definitely more techy than all the other clubs he frequented. He took a seat, and not a second later a tall, tan man wearing a dog collar asked for his order. 

“Couple shots of Jamison.” He answered as he held up two fingers. 

When the server returned, he downed the shots before he could even get someone else’s order in. He requested two more, and two more came. 

Soon, Mickey was on a roll with his liquor consumption. Usually he’d be on the floor paying a guy for a sexy lap dance, but he didn’t have the energy tonight. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. 

He sat alone at the bar, thinking, pondering, contemplating. It was like his brain was on over-drive and the more he drank, the more it raced. 

After another half hour and three more rounds, he decided it was probably time to turn in for the night.

He hopped in the truck, belching loudly as he lit up a cigarette and started the engine, pulling out of the parking lot. He dialed Ricardo. 

“Hey, ese. How’d today go?” He asked when he picked up. 

Mickey belched again. “Went smooth. Everything’s good. Took a load over to Shockwave. Is it alright if I drive the truck back over to your place tomorrow? I’ll be there early.” 

Ricardo agreed. 

\--- 

Mickey had drank a ridiculous amount of beer as the night went on, so he was pretty hammered. He sat on his bed, jamming to some Nine Inch Nails while he chain smoked. 

Somewhere on the inside, somewhere dark where he hated to go and revisit, he was lonely. Besides Ricardo who was usually busy with his family, he didn’t have anyone to hangout with. He didn’t have anyone to call and talk to, and he didn’t have friends. 

Mickey could care less about anybody else in the miserable world, but even he could admit it would be nice to have someone to talk to. 

He pulled out his phone in his pocket and somehow scrolled through his contacts, landing on Ian. 

Firecrotch. 

His vision was double by this point, and he was having trouble keeping his head up. The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing. 

“This is Agent Gallagher.” 

Mickey’s heart dropped to the floor. He hungup as quickly as he had called. 

“Shit,” He muttered as he chucked his phone across the room. He leaned his head on the wall, rubbing his eyes. “Stupid. Fuckin’ stupid.” 

His phone began ringing from the other side of the room. He bit his lip nervously, stumbling over to pick it up. 

Incoming call from: Firecrotch 

He could barely function. 

Finally, after what felt like a million years, it stopped ringing. He let out a breath relief. 

Until it began ringing again.

“Fuck,” He said, still biting his lip. he began pacing around for a moment, not knowing what to do. He felt like he was in fucking high school again. The phone continued to ring. “God damnit, Gallagher. Give it up.” 

After about five more calls, Mickey was too drunk to care anymore. He clicked the green button. 

“Hello? This is Agent Gallagher. Hello? Can you hear me?” 

\--- 

“Special agent Firecrotch.” 

Ian’s heart throbbed so hard in his chest he was sure it was going to burst. 

It was _him._

Why was he calling him at such an ungodly hour? Was he ready to confess information about the case? Did he want to talk about Salvador? 

Ian collected himself before he responded, mentally putting his FBI hat on and acting as if their cringey exchange at Home Depot earlier that morning never happened... 

“Milkovich? Awful late to be calling.” He responded, his tone low and leveled. 

He heard Mickey laugh into the phone and it made his stomach twist. 

“How’s the cabin?” 

Ian was taken aback from the question. He looked around, frantically grabbing his bottle of whiskey to chug a few gulps of before responding. 

“It’s uhm—fine,” Ian replied, a little unsure. “Is there a reason why you are calling?” 

“When did you decide to build a fucking cabin?” 

Ian’s eyes widened. He looked around at the tiny, comfy living room he had built with his own hands. There was a static on the other line that buzzed in his ear. 

“When I was 20.” He answered, going for another pull from the bourbon bottle. 

There was a brief silence, and all that could be heard was heavy breathing on the other side of the phone and some more static until Mickey spoke. 

“So you just decided to build it?” 

Ian bit at a hangnail on his index finger out of nerves. “Uhm. I just felt like it, I guess. It’s nice, you know, building something. It’s rewarding.” 

There was more silence, and Ian realized his FBI hat wasn’t working very well. He started to feel the warmness of the liquor seep into his bones, relaxing his body. He cleared his throat. “I'm assuming you called me in regards to Salvador’s case?” 

“What if I didn’t?” 

Ian’s heart pounded again, ready to pop. 

_Beep beep beep._

He stared at his phone screen. His call dropped. He had horrible reception on his work phone. 

He bit at the hangnail again, thinking of what just happened. He retrieved the bottle, downing more liquor, enough to make his throat burn in a good way. He was beginning to feel the full effects of the alcohol. 

He reached for his personal phone and entered the number Mickey called from, clicking the messaging icon. 

**_I get a better signal on this phone. You can call back if you want._ **

Suddenly, the phone buzzed in his hand. He startled, jumping so hard it caused the phone to slip from his grasp. He caught it before it fell to the ground. 

Blake. 

“Oh my god,” He whispered, looking around like he had something to hide before he answered. “Hi babe.” 

“Do you know where that second pack of laundry detergent is? I can’t find it anywhere.” 

Ian held the phone away from his face for a second to get his breathing right. “It’s uhm, behind the laundry room door.” 

There was a bit of fumbling until he responded. “Why would you put it there?” 

Ian looked around, perplexed. “Because that’s the laundry room, honey.” 

“Okay, don’t need to get smart with me. Are you _drinking?_ ” He demanded. 

Ian shifted around in his seat. He heard his phone buzz in his ear. He stared down at the almost empty bottle of whiskey. “I’m just on my second glass or merlot.” 

“Oh. Well, I’ll talk to you in the morning, Love you.” 

_Click._

Ian swiped out of the call and into his messages. 

**5685327812 / 12:56AM: its all good.**

Ian stared at the words. Mickey actually responded. He _texted_ him. 

He thought about what he said before the call dropped. _”What if I didn’t.”_

What if he didn’t? What if he didn’t want to talk about Salvador and the case, and that’s when Ian began asking himself the same thing. 

What if he _didn’t?_

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He whispered. 

He threw his phone to the other side of the couch. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He whined, putting his hands over his face. 

He thought about Larsen, and how he wanted him to get closer to Mickey; to sneak his way in... 

By the end of the night, Ian convinced himself that he was only doing his job, and this is what he was being _asked_ to do. It’s not like he gave a shit, either way. He felt better knowing that he was being required to get closer to his suspect for the benefit of the case... 

He cozied up on the couch in the living room, too wasted to move his body to the upstairs bedroom. He was getting up early the next day to finish the shed in the backyard. He needed sleep. He pulled a blanket over him, staring out the skylight window he installed a few months previously. The stars were remarkable. He sighed, tapping his leg annoyingly after tossing and turning, trying to get situated in a good position. Then, he became hot. He tore the blanket off his body. 

He laid there in silence, drunk, alone, annoyed, and restless. 

Without any control, his mind wandered back to Mickey. Seeing him in Home Depot earlier that day. 

He began to picture that tight _tight_ purple shirt that contrasted wonderfully with his dark hair and light eyes. His biceps were noticeably accentuated, and his dark jeans complemented his ass nicely. He caught a glimpse as he walked away. Mickey always had the perfect, peach shaped rump. He remembered always grabbing onto it when they fucked, sometimes slapping it if they were feeling extra dirty. 

Ian remembered kissing him on those bubbly, plump cheeks, squeezing them in his hands as he lifted his thighs and locked them around his head, wanting his mouth on him. He remembered sticking his fingers inside while he jerked him off... 

Ian’s hands were running down his abs and inside his black basketball shorts. He was already on his way to a hard-on. He ran his fingers over his half-chub as he thought of the pervious images of eating Mickey’s ass, something he once loved to do. He used to beg for it, actually. He used to make Mickey surrender and let him do it, because he loved doing it _that_ much... 

He was getting rock hard just from the thought. 

He remembered how he used to get him on his back, spread his legs apart and enter so slowly... 

He pulled his shorts down with his free hand and began stroking his cock from the head to the base, picking up momentum as his mind continued to trace back to random memories of their previous love-making endeavors. He remembered Mickey’s moans... 

The taste of his skin... 

When his eyes would roll to the back of his head when it felt too good to bare... 

He remembered running his hands all along his body, just feeling his presence and loving every inch of him... 

As he continued to stroke, the nerve endings in the head of his cock were starting to wake up, and a pleasurable surge of tingles ignited within him. 

He remembered when Mickey would make those lustful faces, looking back at him from behind, while Ian fucked him senselessly... 

He kept stroking, and—to his surprise—he was almost there. 

“Oh, fuck.” He muttered, gripping the top of his cock as he came closer to orgasm. He thought back to being inside to Mickey and that’s when he combusted. “Oh shit.” 

An explosion of thick liquid splattered onto his chest, the couch, and the back of his hand as he was unable to silence his groans of pleasure. The orgasm caused him to stutter and jolt aggressively, his eyebrows furrowing as the intensity flushed through his body. 

When finished, he collapsed to his side. 

He felt guilty. He felt torn, confused and uncertain. But he did know one thing... 

He hadn't came that hard in over a decade.


	7. The Lovers

The next morning, Ian was absolutely sick, and not just from the whiskey hangover; he felt disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he would even consider talking to Mickey in a personal way, and disgusted that he thought of him while he pleasured himself. What was wrong with him? 

He dismissed his thoughts, pretending as if they were never there. It was easier that way. 

He had to remain focused on the case. 

For now, though, he had work to do at the cabin. He was putting in an outside shed for garden tools and other miscellaneous items. The cabin itself was small, but it was homey, and Ian’s favorite place to escape. He started building it with the intention to share it with someone one day, but Blake had no interest to see it. It hurt him, as he had spent all of his free time, money, and effort into making it nice for the both of them, only for him to be enjoying it alone. 

His tiny cabin was in a remote area, but there were a few neighbors a couple of blocks down the road who he was friendly with. The Hallett’s up the street, an elderly married couple, were always coming by when Ian was there and dropping off jams and canned goods from their garden. They watered the garden and did some outdoor up-keep. Ian always told them they didn’t have to do anything, but they insisted. 

Today he had to pick up a few extra bolts at McLendon’s hardware in town. He wasn’t even five minutes into the drive when he got better reception on his work cell and Larsen was calling him. 

“Agent Gallagher.” 

“There you are you ginger son-of-a-bitch! How’s it going?” 

_Absolutely fucking terrible. I’ve had several interactions with Milkovich and not one of them has been about the cartel case._

“It’s going great.” He lied. 

“Excellent. Listen, I know you’re on your day off, but we’ve put together a deal for Milkovich. With everything on his record he’s facing up to 29 years in federal prison. If he doesn’t rat, he’s going. If he does, he will have complete immunity. No jail, and complete FBI protection against cartel retaliation.” 

Ian’s mind was reeling with scenarios as he processed the deal Larsen was proposing. He wasn’t ready to talk to Mickey about a deal yet considering they had barely had exchanged any useful communication. 

“Complete immunity, huh?” Ian repeated, trying to extend the conversation while his head was anxiously racing. 

“Yep. Milkovich knows the ins and outs of Salvador, and he’s got more access than any of our other suspects. He’s the key to taking the cartel down.” 

Ian looked in his rearview mirror for some reason. “Alright. Got it.” 

“Good. I’ll expect an update once you give him the deal.” 

When the call ended Ian tossed his phone on the passenger’s seat as he felt the pressure of Larsen’s requests. He had to meet with Mickey and give him the offer; he couldn’t waste any more time. 

When he finally got into town, he parked at the hardware store, staying idle in the parking lot as he pulled out his personal phone and opened the messaging app. He realized there was an unread text from last night he never received... 

**5685327812 / 3:23AM: Do you ever think about me?**

Ian felt a burning sensation in his chest as his stomach flipped with excitement. 

He hit reply, typing quickly.

 **Meet me at the dugout tomorrow night. 12:30AM**

He clicked send without hesitation. 

\--- 

Mickey hadn’t touched his phone the entire morning. He was plastered the night before and he didn’t even want to think about what he said to Ian when they awkwardly talked on the phone. It was painful to even think about, so he pretended it never happened, just like all their other interactions. 

_Bzzzz. Bzzzz._

When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he was reluctant to see who was trying to contact him, but he pulled it out in case it was a business matter. 

He felt a lump in his throat as he began reading the incoming message. Firecrotch. 

Was he out of his mind? 

“What the fuck?” He muttered to himself, biting the inside of his cheek. 

He didn’t respond right away, trying to think of something to type back. 

Why would he want to meet at the dugout of all places? Their old spot? He probably wanted to discuss cartel shit, which he made very clear he wanted absolutely no part of. 

But for whatever bizarre reason, he couldn’t say no. He didn’t _want_ to say no... He didn’t want to talk about anything cartel related, but maybe he did want to see Ian... Maybe he could make some shit up, tell him what he wanted to hear and then leave just so he could see him... Just to see his beauty in person for the hell of it... 

He agreed to the meeting. 

\--- 

Mickey was back down at the Buff and Stuff, pushing another kilo of blow and bullshitting around with some of the locals. It was a slow night, but he already sold over half the cocaine he needed to, so relaxing was acceptable. He sipped his Jameson on the rocks and tapped his knee to the upbeat house music playing on the loud speakers. He was planning on a smooth night... 

Until Cut called. 

The phone number came up as unknown which was expected. He shot up out of his seat and jogged out of the building. You never missed a call for Cut. 

He answered, and before he could even speak his chilling, grave tone came in through the other side of the line. 

“Meet me at the Westside house in one hour.” 

_*Click*_

Mickey didn’t like the sound of that. A meeting was called either to come up with a kill plan, or someone was getting in trouble. He walked back into the building, having two more drinks before he took off into the busy streets, feeling the warm twilight air on his skin. He walked fast, chain smoking along the way and checking his phone periodically to make sure no one else had tried to contact him again. 

There were no incoming texts from Ian, and he was actually a little disappointed. He figured he would respond even though the conversation was concluded, but nothing ever came in. 

When Mickey finally reached Cut’s location, he ran up the stairs, knocking on the front door. Just then, Ricardo’s truck came speeding into the gravel driveway. He put it in park, racing up to the stairs where Mickey stood. He looked horrible. He appeared to be pale and clammy, drips of sweat gathered on his forehead. His hair wasn’t neatly combed like it usually was. Instead it was messy and un-kept. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. 

“Hey,” Mickey said, staring up at him. 

Ricardo said nothing; only giving him a nod in response. 

Just then the door opened, and Jaun was on the other side. He had an AK across his chest and was wearing a pair of sunglasses, as if he needed them at night. He didn’t speak as he waved his arm, allowing them to pass through. 

They walked hesitantly towards the kitchen where Cut was sitting. He was alone this time, and there was no poker laid out on the table. He was taking a hit from his glass bubble pipe, his eyes disturbingly wide and pupils large. Once he noticed their presence he signaled for them to have a seat at the table with him. 

He turned in his seats, spreading his arms open as a welcoming gesture. “My boys. Mis preciosos muchachos.” 

Mickey smiled, trying to reflect his sincerity. 

“Thank you for everything you do to help me.” He smiled, revealing his gold teeth that Mickey could not help but stare at every time he saw them. “I see you have met Victor, and the deals are going well.” 

Ricardo nodded, not speaking. 

“Yeah, everything is going great.” Mickey reassured him.

“Wonderful!” He yelled. 

There was more silence. 

“I want to talk about our trip to Mexico, Mickey.” Cut continued. “We leave at the end of next week.” 

That was earlier than he had said the last time they spoke. 

“I have a private jet coming from Mexico city that will take us to Valatos. Now, Ricardo,” Cut’s attention shifted across the table to him. He sat there, avoiding eye contact. “While we are gone, you will take down Torres. Jaun will give you further direction. I want him decapitated, so you can then send his severed head across the coastline.” 

Mickey remained completely silent, but he was screaming inside of his head. He was shocked that Cut was asking him to do something so brutal and horrendous. Like Ricardo said, Cut had underground guys in the cartel who did this; not his wing men. He glanced at him, noticing the tears in his eyes. Mickey cringed, looking down at the floor. 

“Sir--” Ricardo began, holding back his sobs. “I don’t know if I can--” 

Mickey was mortified knowing those words were purely a mistake for him. He continued staring at the floor, unable to witness what would unfold next. He could hear Cut snickering, laughing manically to himself before he finally stood up and walked to where Ricardo was sitting. His eyes glanced up for a brief second, watching as Cut was still chuckling. He grabbed a handful of Ricardo’s hair and bent his head backwards. Mickey looked away again. 

“You don’t know if you can do what I asked?” Cut hissed, his teeth grinding against one another. 

Mickey shut his eyes, wincing as he heard the sounds of Ricardo choking, gasping for air. Cut began speaking to him in Spanish as he pleaded, back pedaling on what he said before. Mickey knew this wasn’t going to end well. He felt the table shake against Ricardo’s terrified body. Cut had expectations from each of them, and if they didn’t do as they were expected, there would be consequences. 

Major consequences. 

He peered out of his eyes to see Cut still choking Ricardo, cutting off his air. He was beet red, and the blood vessels in his eyes looked as if they were going to burst. It was painful to watch, but Mickey knew it was all he could do. Finally, before he passed out, Cut eased his grip. Ricardo was holding his throat and panting, frantically trying to get air back into his lungs as he released his hands from his neck. 

Cut was eerily calm now, like a light switch went off.

“Now, Let’s try again. You’ll decapitate him and send his severed head across the coastline. Understood?” 

“Yes.” Ricardo said immediately. 

“Good,” He responded as he smiled again. “Do you two have my money?” 

He and Ricardo nodded in unison, reaching in their pockets for the cash bundles from the coke they had sold over the weekend. They handed over the money and Cut replenished their supply, telling them to have it back to him by the following week. 

When they left, again, Ricardo said nothing to Mickey. He was pale, flushed, and appeared to be distraught. He watched him speed out of the gravel driveway just as quick as he had drove in. Usually he would offer Mickey a ride home, but he had no problem walking tonight. 

Mickey started his journey back to his apartment, and his mind was filling with scary thoughts. Something was off about Cut. When he first started working with him, he was collected, organized and strategic. Now, he was a loose cannon, and the meth was a probable contributor to that. He was unpredictable, and he and Ricardo were starting to feel the brunt of it. 

He smoked a joint he had rolled earlier and let the weed relax him in an attempt to take the stress off in any way possible. He pulled out his phone, staring at the blank message app. No incoming texts, even though he wished there was... 

The interaction between him and Ian was extremely dangerous and could end Mickey up in a whirlwind of trouble. If Cut got any word of it, that would be the end. Of course, Cut would never make that known, but he knew how the game was played. Mickey’s ties to Ian were quite literally a death wish. 

You have any type of affiliation with the feds, you are automatically ratting on the cartel, and when you rat on the cartel, you’re a dead man... Period. 

The walk back to his apartment seemed longer than usual and his hindering thoughts began to cloud his head. He entered the building, taking the stairs and skipping a step each time he hopped one. He reached his door, walking in and becoming instantly alarmed by the sound of the TV on. He found Seth eating a sandwich, curled up on the couch like he lived there. 

“Aye! How the fuck did you get in here?!” Mickey shouted, tossing his belongings on the kitchen table. 

Seth looked up at him, wiping some crumbs from his face. “The door was open.” He said, his mouth full. 

“That doesn’t mean you fuckin’ help yourself. This isn’t your house.” He snapped, angry with his unwanted guest. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asked him, his eyes wide and solemn like a kicked dog. 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I want you to not barge in my fuckin’ house like you own the place.” 

There was a long pause until Seth responded, his tone quiet. “Sorry.” 

Mickey ignored him, not wanting to deal with his guilt. It wasn’t his fault he was a homeless junkie with nowhere to go. He sat at the table, his mind still humming with the lingering thoughts of Cut putting his hands on Ricardo, forcing him to kill someone. He thought of his twin boys, Vanessa, their house, their friendly chocolate lab... 

It was fucked up, unfair, and it made Mickey enraged, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was stuck. Stuck in the pulls of the Mexican drug cartel, and stuck in his pathetic, useless life that had no meaning other than making somebody else money.

Cut had the power to do whatever he wanted. Ricardo and Mickey were just the little puppets he controlled to do his biddings. 

_Bzzzz. Bzzzz._

Mickey’s stomach erupted in a nauseating wave of excitement as he felt his phone vibrate on the table. He almost didn’t even want to check it in fear of being disappointed again, but could only resist for so long... 

He picked it up. It was Shifty. Of course. He should have known. 

“Fuckin’ stupid.” He whispered, tossing his phone back on the table irritably. 

“What’s fucking stupid?” Seth chimed in from the couch, flipping through drama series’ on Netflix. 

“Wasn’t talking to you.” Mickey said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. 

It _was_ fucking stupid. Why was he getting so hellbent on Ian Gallagher again? This shit was out of control. He was putting his own life at risk just to talk to his ex-boyfriend, and if Mickey knew one thing about himself, it was his ability to remove a problem before it festered. 

He picked his phone up again, sending Shifty a quick text before opening his conversation with Firecrotch. 

**Wont be there. Dont hit me up again if you want to keep your fuckin teeth**

He got up from the table, walking across the room and plugging his phone into the charger by his bed. He dived onto it, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes, feeling relieved it was over. 

This whole thing was _over._

\--- 

Somehow, Mickey drifted off to sleep, and when he woke, he felt the press of Seth’s hard-on against him. It was pitch black in his apartment; the only light shining in was from the buildings across the street. Obviously, Seth was turned-on, and lucky for him, Mickey was horny too. Seth was moving into his usual position on all fours where he would wait for him to enter, but Mickey paused, hesitating. 

“What?” Seth asked in the darkness. 

“What if I was on bottom?” He asked nervously. 

There was a pause, and surprisingly, Seth agreed. Of course, Mickey forced him to wear a rubber, and he got around behind him, slowly guiding himself in. He was anxious and excited, considering this would be the first time he had been topped in over a decade. Finally, Seth entered, and he began pumping to his best ability. 

It was a mediocre job and it was nothing like Mickey had remembered. Seth was not very well endowed, and his movements were painfully uncomfortable and forced. It was a cheap rip off compared to Ian. 

Ian. 

The image of him seemed to take over his lustful thoughts. 

He remembered how Ian used to fuck him so good that it would make every hair on his body stand up. It would make him shutter and pulse with feel-good pleasure. Sometimes he would be in such a heightened ecstasy that he would float off into a different universe, his eyes shut tight and his muscles clenched, absorbing every bit of passion physically possible. 

Ian was big—really big—and Mickey used to love every inch of him. All nine of them. 

He used to whisper sweet, sultry words into his ears as he fucked him, Mickey sitting in his lap as he railed into him. He’d hoist him up in a balanced position and do all the work, letting Mickey enjoy every bit of it. He used to tell him he loved him, and wrap his hands around his neck, kissing the indents of his clavicle. 

Suddenly, Seth’s half-assed fucking seemed to transform into the tangible memories of Ian Gallagher making love to him, and it seemed to be working. 

His breathing picked up as his mind kept re-imagining the feeling of Ian behind him, thrusting his cock into his ass, trying his best to get him off. Ian always put Mickey’s pleasure before his own, a trait that he remembered vividly. 

He thought of how he would wedge his large hands into the dips of his hips, holding on for dear life as he ever-so smoothly humped him. He moaned as each repeated thrust was better than the last. The feeling of his ass being pounded by his giant cock was quite literally what his dreams were made of, and the sensation was good enough to send him off the deep end. 

Mickey gripped his own cock, stroking it intensely as his mind time traveled to the past... Finding those locked, hidden memories of sexual adventures with his ex... 

“Fuck yeah,” He blurted out, and Mickey realized he had _never_ spoke during sex since he had been with Ian. Seth seemed to take it as a boost of confidence as he picked up speed, ramming his small-self inside of him with over-the-top, forced theatrics. Mickey ignored it, his eyes squinted shut as his mind was still in overdrive, selecting those naughty memories from the depths of his brain... 

He remembered one time they fucked in the bathroom at the Alibi. It was closing, and Kev and Vee were already gone, the doors locked behind them as they thought everyone had left. But Ian and Mickey stayed so they could fool around in a sheltered place. It was the dead of winter, and too cold for their usual meeting place at the dugout. He recalled Ian pinning him up to the door of the stall while Mickey's head smashed up against it. This was the first time Ian had kissed him during sex, and it was definitely the first time Mickey had kissed _anyone_ during sex. 

He could remember catching Ian leaning in closer in the corner of his eye, and he didn’t stop him. Mickey leaned his head back, responding to him as he met his lips and sealed their kiss, pushing his tongue gently in his mouth. Ian removed his hands from over the stall door and placed them intimately around his neck, pulling his head back as he kissed him with an intense passion. 

Mickey started stroking himself faster until he was on the verge of nutting all over his sheets. He didn’t care. It was too good. Seth’s work wasn’t doing anything, really, as Mickey was too busy on working himself to climax. 

When Ian did that, kissed him like he loved him while they had sex, it opened up a whole new door of intimacy... It wasn't just fucking anymore. After that night, they made love, and he would never forget it. He remembered the instant their tongues began to dance eagerly and they both came in unison, filling the bathroom with echoed moans of pleasure and relief... 

And, that was it. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come. Ian, I’m gonna—” 

Without another stroke, Mickey was bursting, the orgasm so good he could feel a tickling sensation from the top of his head, all the way down his legs. 

“Fuuuuck.” He let out one last drawn out moan until he soaked his sheets completely. He wasn’t sure where Seth was at and what he was doing, but frankly, he didn’t care. 

He cleaned himself up, turning the lights on and removing the dirty sheets, tossing them in the laundry hamper. 

“Who’s Ian?” Seth asked curiously, pulling his knees to his chest. 

Mickey shot an annoyed glance at him. “What?” He asked defensively. 

“Ian. You said that while we were fucking.” Seth said simply. 

He stopped, looking around, trying to remember at what point he had said that, but he failed. “None of you’re fuckin’ business,” He growled. “Now get out of my bed. The couch is right there.” 

\--- 

Ian was usually not looking forward to packing up and going back to the city, but today, he was never so eager to leave the cabin. He showered at around seven, cleaning himself up and throwing on some jeans with a white tank top. He grabbed a polka-dot navy shirt to wear over it. He checked his personal phone before he left, and his heart dropped to the floor when he read a text from Mickey. 

He instantly filled with anger, tossing his phone across the room, straight into the wall. He was breathing hard, crossing his arms and throwing a temper tantrum. Why did he agree to meet with him in the first place, only for him to bag it on the day of? 

Ian sunk to the bed, holding his head in his hands and sighing. Frustrated, he gathered his things and packed them in the car. He took one last look at the progress on his back shed. He made some headway on this trip, assembling the structure of it, but it still needed roofing and some finishing touches. Obviously he had been distracted this time. He tied a tarp over the top to protect it from rain and other outdoor conditions. He knew it needed to be completed soon, which meant another visit in the next few weeks. 

Ian got in his car, heading for the city. It was about a two hour drive back to Chicago. As he drove down the windy forest roads, his mind took over, thinking about the situation with Mickey. After nearly an hour of thinking, pulled out his phone, deciding to respond to him. 

**Whatever. I’ll be there**

He clicked send. 

\--- 

It was 12:30 exactly when Ian pulled into the upper parking lot of the baseball field. He wanted to meet late on account of the crowds during the summer. At this hour, no one was around except for maybe the occasional crackhead or homeless bum. He turned off the car, walking out of the lot and down towards the field. He quickly glanced in the distance. The park seemed to be deserted. 

He got to the dugout, sitting at the bench in the fenced area when an unexpected feeling of nostalgia hit him like a freight train. The last time he had been there was with Mickey several years ago. He really had no idea why he had him meet him here, other than they were both familiar with it and it was secluded, away from the public eye. 

After a few minutes he checked his phone just in case, but there were no calls or texts. He shuffled his feet in the sandy dirt as he waited, becoming doubtful that Mickey would show. 

“Waste of my fucking time.” He said to himself as he looked up at the sky, studying the stars and the bright crescent moon that accompanied them. It was a beautiful summer night, and it reminded him of the many nights he had spent here with Mickey. He looked up at the pole they used to do push-ups on, always having competitions to see who was better. He remembered the hundreds of beers they shot-gunned and, of course, the fucking. 

Another 15 minutes had passed, and he finally accepted he wasn’t going to come. He stood up from the bench to head back towards the parking upper parking lot when he heard someone shouting behind him. 

“Gallagher!” 

Ian turned and squinted, trying to make out someone appearing out of the foliage behind the field. It was difficult to see in the dark, but as they got closer, Ian’s heart launched upwards into his throat. He felt the collar of his shirt become tight around his neck and a leaky sweat began to form in his palms. 

Dressed in black Dickies shorts and a maroon v-neck, Mickey was looking especially good tonight. A silver chain hung around his neck and it gleamed in the streetlight as he walked closer. He had a backpack over his shoulders and was smoking a joint, exhaling the smoke towards him. Ian breathed in and filled his lungs with the scent of it as he walked by. 

He collected himself mentally, preparing for conversation. 

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Ian stated as Mickey walked into the dugout. He leaned on the fence, kicking a knee up and pulling the joint from his mouth after a long drag. 

He shrugged, staring at him through slanted eyes, his icy blues burning on him. “Changed my mind.” 

He walked to where he was, sitting on the bench across from him as Mickey watched his every move. It was uncomfortable, but he tried not to notice. 

“How come?” He asked sincerely. 

Mickey took the end of his joint and put it out on the pavement, sticking the roach in his back pocket, just like he used to when they were kids. He stared up at him, his face blank. “You said you were coming anyway. Didn't want to stand you up.” He grinned. 

Ian ignored the knot in his stomach with every bit of strength he had. “Look,” He started, ignoring his poky sarcasm. “I have a proposition for you that I think you’d be interested in.” 

Mickey’s grin disappeared. His once comfortable looking stance against the fence changed into a tense, stiff pose. “So that’s why you wanted me to come here.” 

Ian stuttered as he spoke. “Well, I wanted to... to talk about your options.” 

He shook his head, looking up to the sky much like Ian had earlier. He flipped his backpack off his shoulders, unzipping the large pocket and pulling out a bottle of Jameson whiskey. “I told you I don’t know shit about a murder.” 

“Immunity.” Ian said simply, staring up at him, studying his body language. 

Mickey's eyes narrowed again. “What?” 

"No prison time. You confess about the murder and lead us to Salvador, you don’t go to prison, and you have guaranteed FBI protection. Forever.” 

He laughed, biting his lip and looking away from him now. “And what if I don’t?” 

“29 years in federal prison. Depending on good behavior, maybe 20, give or take.” He spoke casually, as this what just part of his job, but Mickey looked disturbed. He never had a poker face. 

“Bullshit. On what fuckin’ charges?” His voice cracked. 

“Unlawful possession of an illegal firearm in the first degree, for starts. Which you have multiple counts of... Plus possession of cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin and ecstasy all with intent to sell which is drug trafficking. Also, racketeering and involvement with a large drug operation. Not to mention you have prior drug felony convictions and are now a repeat offender.” 

Mickey twisted the cap off the Jameson and began to chug. After he stopped he wiped the sides of his mouth. “And what else?” 

Ian stared at him nervously. “What do you mean?” 

Mickey’s eyes shifted in confusion. “What else is there?” 

He crossed his arms. “Nothing. That’s it.” 

He laughed. “That’s it? You had me come all the way here for some shit you could’ve told me on the phone?” 

Ian shifted in his seat, feeling stupid as he waved his hand, rejecting Mickey’s whiskey offer. “Sorry that I assumed it was an in-person conversation. What’s your answer?” 

He was lighting a cigarette now, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Cuff me, I guess.” 

Ian blinked in confusion, then laughed in disbelief. “You’re not serious.” 

“As a heart attack. I’ll do the time. I’m not a fuckin’ rat.” He hissed. 

Ian stood up from the bench. “So, what? You spend a few decades rotting in prison, get out and have nothing? Blow your whole life off? You’ll nearly be 60—” 

“What the fuck do you care?” Mickey’s voice raised as he flicked his cigarette off into the distance. 

Why _did_ he care what happened to Mickey? 

“I don’t.” He muttered, unable to look in his eyes. 

“How long do I have?” He asked glumly. 

Ian cleared his throat. “That really depends. How long do you need?” 

“A couple weeks.” He looked away, obviously trying to avoid eye-contact. 

Ian nodded in response, calculating everything in his head. “So, you’re reconsidering?” 

“’Never fuckin' said that.” Mickey snapped. 

Ian turned his body to face him, gazing in his pretty eyes. “This cartel work you’re involved in is bad. You want to end up dead on the side of the road? Chopped up in a million pieces? You’re not going to escape without FBI intervention, Mickey.” 

It was the first time he had called him that since they began speaking again. 

“And then what?” He asked. 

Ian kept an intense gaze on him. “And then you're free. You have the chance to live a good life—” 

“I already had that chance.” Mickey took another pull from the whiskey, his eyes becoming glossier with every passing minute. “Twelve years ago. You remember that? You remember fucking up my life? Remember leaving me at the border—” 

“Oh, please! You can’t blame your shitty life on me!” Ian began to defend himself. “I had my shit together. I had a job, and a plan. You wanted to sell drugs and be a criminal.” 

Mickey had a displeasing smirk on his face as he grabbed his backpack, swinging it behind his shoulders. “Yeah. That’s me. Just a useless fuckin’ criminal. Get the fuck out of my way.” 

He walked past him, shoving him in the shoulder as he did. “Wait a minute—” 

“I’ve got shit to do. You’ll get your answer in a couple weeks. In the meantime, don’t expect shit from me.” He turned his back and took off for the field, leaving Ian in the dust. 

“Fuck!” Ian yelled, kicking the side of the fence and the entire structure rattled with the blow. 

He did as he was told. He broke the news to Mickey, presenting him with a solution, just like his boss had asked, but he left the dugout that night feeling even worse than before. 

Did Mickey really blame him for the condition of his life? Did he really have that much pent-up anger still inside of him, even 12 years later? And was he truly considering keeping his mouth shut in order to protect the cartel? 

\--- 

When Ian arrived at home, he was exhausted, and more than ready to hit the sack. He walked into the bedroom to find Blake asleep in bed, snoring loudly. He stripped down to his boxers, quietly crawling in and smiling as he gave Blake a small peck on his cheek. 

When he settled in, his mind was automatically unable to rest after the night’s events. He pulled out his phone, hovering over him and Mickey’s text conversation, debating whether or not to say anything. He hesitated before he typed. 

**I’m sorry I upset you**

Ian had always been the type of person that needed communication when there was any type of conflict. He wanted to talk more, to know why Mickey blamed him for everything... But tonight, he lost his battle with exhaustion and let his dreams take over... 


	8. The Chariot

**Part Two**

Ian jumped out of bed to the chiming noise of his obnoxious ringtone. He scurried around, searching for his phone until he found it on the nightstand. 

Larsen. 

He answered, hoping he didn’t sound too groggy. “Agent Gallagher.” 

“Gallagher! How did the meeting with Milkovich go?” He asked eagerly, a pressuring tone clear in his voice. 

Ian sat up in bed, rubbing the back of his head as he tried to wake up. “It went well.” 

“Excellent. Let’s chat about it at the office.” 

Ian didn’t have a chance to respond before the phone hung-up. He checked the time. 7:35AM. 

He groaned, stretching and walking to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Blake left it a mess from his dinner the night before. He picked up, collecting dirty dishes and wiping down the counters. He gathered the trash and stepped outside to toss it in the bin when he heard a lovely voice calling his name... 

“Ian, sweetie!” 

He looked up, waving back at Nancy, the nice neighbor next to them. “Morning!” He hollered.

“Why don’t you come over and have some coffee?” 

He smiled and walked over; he didn’t have the heart to tell her he already had a pot brewing. 

Nancy had a nice porch set up that was in the middle of her impeccable lush garden. She was constantly weeding, planting, pulling, and watering. 

“Come on, honey. Sit down.” 

She pulled out the seat for him and Ian graciously sat while she hurried inside back for a few moments. She returned with a hot mug of coffee along with a plate of cream, sugar, and a small tray of scones. 

“Homemade. Raspberry.” She winked, pushing them towards him. 

He grinned. “Looks great. Thank you.” 

Nancy accompanied him at her small patio table, drinking her own cup of coffee and pulling off the dead petals from a gigantic yellow rose bush next to her. 

“So, how are things going at work?” She asked sweetly, a generous tone in her voice. 

Ian poured some cream into his coffee. “Good. Things are going good.” He lied, hoping he sounded convincing. 

“Well, that didn’t sound very convincing.” She chuckled, shooting him a teasy expression. 

He relaxed his shoulders, smirking at her. “You got me. At least I got that case I wanted.” 

She clapped, looking excited. “That’s wonderful! So what’s bothering you then?” 

Ian sighed. “It’s just... a complicated mess. I can’t disclose any information. I wish I could, but I can’t.” 

Nancy nodded, rubbing his hand on the table. “Oh, I know sweetie. All that FBI business is top-secret. Just know I’m always here if you want to talk. I’ve lived a long life and I’m always open to give advice.” 

Ian looked in her deep, dark blue eyes that were surrounded with lines of wrinkles. There was an immense amount of wisdom behind those eyes... He stared at her longingly, and she watched him, waiting for him to speak. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

She looked delighted, smiling warmly again. “Of course you can.” 

“What would you do if someone you once loved just randomly showed up in your life again?” Ian asked, looking down in his coffee mug, watching the ripples wave in the middle. 

Nancy perked up in her seat. “Oh? Well, that’s quite a sticky situation, isn’t it?” 

“To say the least... But what if—” Ian stopped, gathering the right words. “What if there was—” 

“Something still there?” She winked, squeezing his hand. 

Ian nodded, scared to say it out loud for some reason. 

“Let me tell you a little story...” Nancy took a small sip from her coffee. “My Greg who passed in 2019, we had all odds against us...” 

Ian smiled, suddenly interested. “Really?” 

She nodded, humming. “Oh, yes. I was engaged to another man, and the night before my wedding, Greg took me away.” 

“Wow. He swept you away that easily, huh?” Ian asked, resting his chin in his hand as he listened intently. 

She laughed, and her liver-spotted cheeks turned several shades of red. “He did. John was Navy and Greg was Army... So naturally there was some bad-blood there. My father couldn’t stand him. But Greg was my soul mate, in every sense of the word, and though John was a nice man, he didn’t have my heart like my Greg did.” 

Ian’s heart fluttered as he thought of Mickey and unintentionally smiled. 

“I know it’s risky business, but the forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, doesn’t it?” She winked again, and now Ian was the one turning red. “Follow your heart sweetie. You can’t go wrong.” She gave his hand another squeeze. 

Ian finally took a bite of his scone. “Wow, these are delicious.” He spoke with a mouth full. 

“Oh honey, take them. Take them all. I made too much. I always do. I’ll put them in a ziploc for you.” She smiled again. “Say, your boyfriend over there, remind me his name?” 

Ian washed down the scone with a few gulps of coffee. “Blake.” 

“Blake,” She repeated. “That’s right. When I invite him to come over and have a cup he always turns me down. That man is always on the go. He needs to live in the moment more. Sure hope he treats you right.” She rubbed his hand again and Ian knew she was being lighthearted, but something told him there was an underlying concern. 

“He does,” He confirmed. “He’s fantastic. He’s just really busy, Nancy. Next time we’re both home I’ll make him come over and mingle.” Ian winked. 

He finished his coffee and Nancy gave him his scones to-go which he would bring into the office. They said their goodbyes and Ian walked back to his house, swearing as he realized what time it was. He hurried in the shower, stripping naked and running the water. He was about to step in when his phone vibrated from the bathroom counter. 

Speak of the devil. 

“Hey, babe.” He answered. 

“Are you working today?” Blake asked, seemingly annoyed. 

“Yep. I’ll be at the office for a bit. What’s up?” 

He sighed. “Can you pick up my stuff at Cory’s dry-cleaning around six tonight? We’re going to head over to Chris and Omar’s after work.” 

“Sure, babe. Don’t worry about it. I got it.” He said as he ran back into the bedroom, completely nude. He grabbed a pen from the dresser and began scribbling a notes on his palm. 

“Oh my god, you’re like, the best. Thank you.” 

“No problem. Oh, Guess what? I almost finished that shed up at the cabin. It’s looking badass, babe. You have to come see—” 

“Oh shit, my boss is on the other line. Gotta go.” 

_*Click*_

Ian sighed in disappointment, staring at his phone screen. He knew Blake was busy with work constantly, but sometimes he just wanted to talk to his partner. 

He made his way back to the bathroom, finally hopping in the shower. The temperature was just right, and relaxed him so much that it made him want to crawl back in the comfort of his bed. 

He grabbed a bottle of Axe bodywash and began lathering the suds on his body. As he washed, his mind suddenly shifted back to Mickey somehow... He thought of the text he sent him, apologizing for bringing up such a sensitive subject. Ian replayed their conversation at the dugout in his head again, realizing he sounded like an asshole. 

“It’s your job to be an asshole.” He said aloud. 

He thought back to Mickey’s look last night. The maroon shirt, black shorts... the silvery chain... the beautiful untouched black hair... 

Without even realizing it, his right hand was already cupping over his half-hard cock. 

Ashamed, he stopped, yanking his hand away and continuing to wash himself. He was _not_ doing that again. Besides, the only reason he did it last time was on account of the alcohol, so there was no chance in hell he was jerking off to Mickey _sober_. 

But the images of him kept flashing in his brain like a neon-sign. The way his biceps popped out from the arms of his shirt. The corner of his tattoo just barely showing (which he was still curious about.) The way he looked when he wrapped his wet mouth around the neck of the whiskey bottle, resembling the image of when it was the head of his own cock... 

Ian sucked a breath of air through his teeth angrily, trying to resist the urge, but it was no use. 

Mickey Milkovich had ahold of him again. 

He squirted a dime of body wash in his hand and began smothering all over his cock, starting out with a few small strokes. Mickey's appearance the night before if what got him here, but an old memory seemed to take over. And one of Ian’s favorites... 

It was the two of them alone in the Gallagher house, the only time if ever happened. He remembered checking in each room, being sure that the place was vacant. When he realized everyone was gone, he returned to the kitchen and gave Mickey a confirming nod. Then, he attacked him, ripping off his clothes and hoisting him up on the counter. He chuckled to himself as he recalled his bare ass knocking over a few dishes in the process, the plates crashing onto the ground. 

He kissed him for a long, long time, with his hard cock pressed against his equally hard shaft. Finally, he brought Mickey’s legs up and had him lean back slightly, just enough to get the perfect angle. 

They had just had an argument before they got there. Something about Mandy. Maybe it was about Lip? He couldn’t remember... Only the details of the post makeup sex mattered... 

He had Mickey spread on the counter, inserting himself inside with a forcing push, causing him to groan instantly in satisfaction. He started to hump him, watching as the length of his shaft repeatedly pumped in and out of his entrance. He held onto his plump ass, gripping his cheeks and grunting like an animal. 

He remembered Mickey’s mouth was agape, panting wildly as Ian rammed him on the kitchen counter in broad daylight, both of them knowing anyone could burst through the door at any given second, but the thrill only made their urges more desirable... 

“Fuck, give it to me,” Mickey begged, spreading his legs further apart so Ian could get the right range of motion. 

“You like that?” Ian asked through gritted teeth, focusing on his breathing. 

“Maybe if you fucked me harder.” Mickey smiled, biting his lip at the same time. 

Just the image of it was already sending Ian into a climax, and he had only been in the shower for two minutes. 

He remembered how much Mickey liked to tease him and it only made him work more intensely. He took it as a competitive challenge, racing to the top with each guided thrust as he knew Mickey would soon regret begging for such a forceful fuck. He switched his hands from behind his ass over to his upper hips, now using the balanced grip to bounce Mickey on the top of his cock. It was a synched rhythm now, and he knew they were at the point of no return. Within seconds Ian was coming inside of Mickey, and simultaneously, he blew his load right onto Ian’s chest, upper neck and face. 

In the midst of this image, Ian was also climaxing in real life... 

“Oh fuck, Mickey.” He whispered as he stood on the tips of his toes while the muscles in his calves clenched, desperately grasping onto the pleasure. His cock was so hard he could see that one long purple vein on his shaft popping up under the skin. He released with a deep groan, his load busting onto the tiled wall, instantly washing away from the water. 

Again, much like last time, that empty feeling of guilt sunk into him as he concluded his shower. 

But, really, who was he hurting? 

It’s not like he was _cheating_ on Blake. He wasn’t doing anything _wrong_. It was like watching porn, or flipping through one of his old nudy mags... Only he was jerking off to the thought of his ex-boyfriend, and the memory of how he used to fuck him. Was that normal? Probably not. 

Knowing there was nothing he could do to change it, Ian let the guilt fade away. He had a long day ahead of him. 

\--- 

Ian arrived at the office around 10, holding his ziploc bag of scones Nancy had sent him with. He passed by Claire at reception, giving her a casual wave, but she came running around her desk, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Are you feeling off at all?” She asked, an inquisitive expression on her slim face. 

Ian looked at her longingly, thinking back to his self-pleasuring in the shower earlier that morning. “No. Should I be?” 

“Well,” She read from a notepad. “Taurus is supposed to be going through a lot of changes this moon cycle, Ian. Full moon in Scorpio! Super-charged and mysteriously emotional energy!” 

He nodded, totally confused by her Astrology rant. “I’ll let you know if anything changes, okay?” He patted her on the shoulder and damn-near ran into his office. 

Maybe there was something to be said about all that planet woo-woo Claire was always spewing at him, (considering there _was_ some seriously mysteriously emotional energy going on in his life) but he ignored it, though, just like he seemed to be ignoring everything lately. 

When he sat at his desk he noticed a stack of new documents with an array of neon post-its and red sharpie scribbled everywhere. It was daunting. He sighed, picking up one of the files to read when his office door busted open without warning. 

“Gallagher! Just the man I wanted to see!” 

Ian looked up, slightly startled as Agent Larsen came barging through the door with another stack of paperwork in his hands. 

“Morning.” He said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, preparing to be there for a while. 

“So,” Larsen began. “You gave Milkovich the immunity deal I take it?” 

Ian nodded unenthusiastically. “I did.” 

“And? What’s the verdict?” Larsen pushed, leaning on the edge of his seat. 

“He said he would return with an answer, whether that be accepting our offer and turning Salvador over or holding out his wrists.” Ian explained. He crossed his legs, beginning to try and read the documents. 

Larsen grinned. “And you’re more than positive he’ll accept the offer?” 

He glanced at him, shaking his head. “No.” 

He watched Larsen’s about face. “And what the fuck does that mean?” 

“Milkovich isn’t a rat. He’s not going down that easily.” Ian was browsing through the stack of documents, losing his focus on the conversation. 

“Excuse me?” He asked, his voice shrill. 

Sensing his concern, Ian looked up at him. “He’s not going to come forward and lead us to Salvador just because we threatened him with a sentence. Where he comes from, he’ll do the time if he has to. Southside don’t snitch.” He said simply, being as direct as he possible. 

Larsen tossed his paper stack on the desk, standing up and stepping forward. Ian watched as he tucked his hands inside his blazer, placing them on his sides much like he did in their morning meetings. 

“Let me get this straight, _Special Agent Gallagher_ ,” His tone lowered as he bent down, staring Ian directly in the eyes and flicking the badge on his shirt. “You’re a criminal investigator for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, specializing in the take-down of organized crime and infiltrative mass drug operations, and you’re telling me your suspect might take the high road and there’s nothing you can do about that?” 

“Sir, it’s just the way he was brought up—” 

“You were hired to crack these thugs and throw their higher-ups in prison. I don’t give a flying shit about your little ghetto neighborhood pinky-promises. I chose you and you specifically for this case because I know your skills and strong suits, but if you’re proving to me you’re not fit for the job, I’ll send Grimshaw on it.” 

Ian swallowed as he thought of his pending promotion. “I... I apologize. I’ll get on it, sir.” 

“Good,” He smiled again, adjusting his blazer around the neck. “Now, get your ginger head out of your ass and get some work done. Look over these documents I’ve made notes on and head back out on the field ASAP. There’s a situation down at the docks we need your hands on. Time is of the essence, Gallagher. We can’t wait any longer for you to develop a good rapport with your suspect. It’s time to get your hands dirty. You’ll be hearing form me tomorrow evening.” 

He left his office without another word. Ian leaned his head back in his chair. 

“Fuck me.” He whispered; his mind heavy with Larsen’s push on the case. 

He looked down at the files, lazily reading the violent, red-inked notes. There was a picture paper-clipped atop one of the first pages; an unflattering mugshot of a man by the name of Duke Finnigan, owner and maintenance operator down at the marina. There was a red stamp below his picture that read MISSING. 

Ian chewed lightly on his pen cap as he continued reading. Finnigan was apparently in ties with Salvador though material deliveries and had gone missing over a week ago. The shipyard was feeling the financial brunt of his disappearance, which resulted in unmaintained docks, which resulted in angry fishermen. 

There was one more photo on the opposite page; a dark, low quality image of Mickey and Finnigan making a delivery at Cantelli’s meats. It was apparent to Ian that these notes were pinpointing Mickey to blame for his disappearance, and a small blurb in the bottom-left corner written in all caps which confirmed that. 

**MILKOVICH / MURDERER OF DUKE SEAMUS FINNIGAN**

If Ian knew one thing about Mickey, one solid fact that he could hold true, 

It was that he wasn’t a murderer. 

He grabbed the keys to the Tahoe from his desk drawer and walked across the office, stupidly gathering the notes he dramatically threw on the floor. He left the building, avoiding Larsen or any others who might distract him even more.


	9. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **!!!TRIGGER WARNING!!!  
>  THERE IS A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF VIOLENCE AND BODY MUTILATION/MURDER IN THIS CHAPTER.  
> PROCEED WITH CAUTION!**

When Ian arrived at the docks, he rolled his eyes in annoyance at the number of Chicago PD vehicles on the scene. City cops were good for nothing but incident reports. After that, all they did was get in the way of the FBI. He got out of his car, walking up to the surrounded group of police officers at the entrance of the scene. They all stepped forward when they noticed him until Ian reached in his breast pocket and flashed his shiny golden badge. 

“Relax, boys. Special Agent Gallagher.” 

He made a mocking hand gesture and took a bow as they huffed, chattering amongst each other as they let him pass through their huddled wall. He stood near the top of Dock A, scanning the area until an older deputy walked up from the maintenance building and approached him. 

“I’m Sheriff Fraiser. You’re gonna want to see this, Agent.” His big eyes glared down at him alarmingly. 

Ian followed him down the dock and into the maintenance building. “I think you guys need to use more caution tape next time.” He joked, eyeing the bright yellow crime scene tape that was looped around every visible pole. 

Fraiser shot him an irritated glance. 

He led him into the main office, unlocking the door and opening it when the stench of dead human hit him like a brick wall, causing his nostrils to flare. 

“Dear god.” Ian said, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose. “You know, Sheriff, I’ve been doing this for the last seven years or so and I’m still not used to the smell of death.” 

Again, Deputy Fraiser looked unamused. He pointed around the corner. “Found him like this last night. Definitely cartel related.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that, Sheriff.” He snickered. 

He walked around the corner and into the main hallway where the stench grew stronger. He looked inside of the supply closet to the left of him and stopped immediately. There, spread out on the floor, was a deceased Duke Finnigan. 

The image was gruesome. He had been sodomized with a broom stick and left there for several days, based on the smell. 

Ian was used to these encounters, though. After seven years in the field, you start to be less surprised by killings, and more surprised by the events that led to them. That was where his passion was- putting the pieces together, cracking the code and finding the perpetrator behind these heinous crimes. 

As gory as it was, Ian observed the scene, unfazed by the sickening image of murder and more focused on the incident that took place beforehand. Whoever committed the crime was an expert, leaving behind no trace of their presence. It was clear that Finnigan died in the hands of an experienced cartel member who dedicated his time to pulling off these psychotic stunts. 

He looked closer, studying the broom that had been shoved down his throat and measured the length. He discovered Finnigan was completely clothed except for his exposed chest. On it was a sliced wound in the shape of an ‘S’, resembling a dragon. 

“Solano.” He whispered, pulling out his work phone to snap a few pictures. 

Ian returned to his car briefly to grab his forensics kit. Sheriff Fraiser was still guarding the entryway to the maintenance building when he returned. 

“You know Sheriff, you don’t have to stand there. You can go if you’d like. I’ll take it from here.” Ian offered, smiling politely. 

“I’d feel more comfortable if law enforcement stayed here for safety reasons, Agent.” 

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

Ian marched back down the hallway to return to the scene. The stench was still just as a disgusting as when he first entered. He set the kit full of supplies on the floor, a good enough distance away from the body. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, putting them on his hands before touching anything else. 

He was well trained in this part of the investigation and always left no piece of evidence unturned. 

The entire procedure took well over an hour. Ian scanned the premises for fingerprints, footprints, bloodstains, and any other form of forensics. Of course, he was not surprised when his efforts fell short. The Solano cartel was not a group of rookie criminals. They were well established, having years under their belt of developing and perfecting their craft. 

There was absolutely no trace of distinct evidence that could be briefed and submitted for laboratory examination. He swiped the broomstick for prints. He checked every possible area for shoe tracks and scanned Finnigan’s entire dead body twice for any forensic details he may have missed. 

He did one last sweep of the scene before finally examining the gaping wound on his chest. The shape itself was made up of thick gashes, most likely carved by a razor blade. He snapped a photo of the wound with the flash so every detail could be seen accurately. He glanced at the screen for a moment when he suddenly paused, zooming in on the photo. 

There, stuck to a clump of dry blood was one single strand of black hair. 

Ian’s stomach flipped like it did when he discovered a tangible piece of evidence. He raced back over to the kit and grabbed a small plastic bag with a blank label on it. He used tiny tweezers to retrieve the hair, gracefully plucking it from the crusty blood pool and putting it inside the open bag. He sealed it shut. 

Finnigan was a light-haired Irish man. There’s no way it was his own hair. It was obviously his killer’s. Unless, it was Mickey’s. 

“No fucking way.” Ian denied, visibly shaking his head. 

This was another cartel member sent out to whack Duke Finnigan for either revenge purposes or payment issues. Whatever it was, there was more to the story, but he _knew_ Mickey wasn’t the one on the other side of the blade. Or broom. 

For whatever reason, Ian was starting to have a bad feeling about Larsen and his concerns with the case. Why was Larsen so adamant on having him and only him inspect the scene? He had other guys he could have sent to this location... 

Ian decided he wanted to see the DNA results with his own eyes. 

He cleaned up what he could, leaving the rest of the mess for the forensics team who would be coming in later that evening. He gathered his things and took off, leaving the CPD on their own. 

\--- 

When Ian arrived back at the Division, he decided to avoid the office completely, heading straight for the lab. Going to the office meant greeting people and possibly crossing paths with Larsen again. Something didn’t sit right with him, and he chose to act on instinct, dropping off the evidence himself. 

He entered the lab, smiling at Julie, the lead forensics officer for the Chicago FBI. 

“Hi, Julie.” He greeted, 

“Hey there, Ian. How’re you doing?” She asked, leaning on the countertop as if she was ready for a long conversation. 

“This is from my investigation today,” He slid down his bag under the plexiglass window, practically throwing it at her. “It’s for my case. How long are the results going to take?” 

She gave him a confused expression, staring down at the tiny bag. She picked it up, eyeing at the nearly invisible stand-alone hair in the corner of the baggy. “This is it?” 

He shot her an annoyed glance. “Yes, that’s it. It’s a hair, Julie. Perfectly good evidence. When can you test it?” 

She sighed, staring at the clock behind her. “I mean I can test it now but I’m off in five—” 

“Yes,” He cut her off. “Test it now. I need it. It’s crucially important. Please. If you could?” He changed his tone, almost begging her. 

She looked at the hair, then back up at Ian again, rolling her eyes. “Fine. But I want coffee.” 

“You got it! Coffee for a whole week!” He promised. 

“Make it two.” She smirked. She was about to turn around and walk into the lab, when Ian grabbed her wrist gently. 

“Julie. This is really important... I need you to call me as soon as you get those results. I mean the very second you get them.” Ian ordered. 

“Sure, sure. I have your number on the directory—” 

“No, call this number.” He said sternly as he snatched a pen from the cupholder on the counter, an obnoxious fake daisy taped to the top of it. He scribbled the phone number down and handed it to her. “Call that number right when you have the test those results.” 

He stared at the clock himself now, cussing under his breath when he realized he had to be at Chris and Omar’s in less than 10 minutes, still having to stop and get Blake’s dry-cleaning. He said goodbye to Julie, reminding her to call him as soon as possible for the third time. 

His stomach was turning in knots as anxiety fled through him. He would be anticipating her phone call for the rest of the night. 

\--- 

He met Blake over at the couple’s house, running frantically to the front door after speeding in the Tahoe all the way there. He was expecting a lecture about punctuality at some point tonight. He knocked twice before finally entering himself and was hit with the aroma of BBQ. His stomach rumbled and he realized he had eaten nothing the entire day, and even if they were just slapping some sauce on tofu, Ian was hungry enough to eat it. 

He put a smiling face on when he entered their home, greeting Chris who was slaving away in the kitchen. 

“Hey! How are you?” Ian made his way over to pat Chris on the shoulder as he passed by, being careful not to disturb his cooking. 

“Ian! Hey, man. Doing good, doing good. Feel free to take a seat on the back porch.” 

He nodded, walking towards the back and passing their friendly Persian cat, Mynx who took a liking to him. He squeaked and purred as he scratched his ear. 

He walked through the sliding glass door, waving to Omar and taking a seat next to Blake, squeezing his thigh as he sat down beside him. 

“Hey babe.” He said kindly. “Whatchya’ drinking?” 

“You’re literally 20 minutes late.” Blake huffed, holding a hand in the air expressively. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up at work. This case is really all over the place right now.” He said awkwardly, trying to smooth over the fact he had just investigated a horrific murder. 

“Ian,” Omar said, interrupting their banter. “Can I get you a beer?” 

He looked up at him, his eyes flashing to Blake with a look of desperation like a child begging his parent for a cookie. Blake made an unamused grumble. 

“Please?” He begged, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate. 

“It’s a really good Pilsner microbeer from the local brewery up there on James street. Really hoppy. Has a nice oaky apricot flavor.” Omar explained, swishing around the beer in his bottle. 

“Okay...” Ian smiled, not knowing what the hell he was saying. 

“See,” Blake said, shifting himself in his chair. “This is good beer. Not that trash you drink from the Kash and Grab.” He rolled his eyes, sipping on his dark wine. 

“Old Style? Yeah. I’ve kind of grown out of that.” He admitted, taking a gulp of the bubbly beer. 

If he didn’t know any better, he would have spit the concoction all over the deck. It tasted like tree bark and coffee beans. He would, in fact, kill for an Old Style right about now... 

He thought of Mickey and his heart fluttered in his chest like the wings of a hummingbird. 

_Mickey._

He was already back down memory lane again... 

They used to kill off so many Old Style’s they would piss carbonation for the rest of the night. They used to shotgun so many that Ian eventually found a “sweet spot” on the can; the perfect place to pop his blade into the metal to make for an easy flow of the liquid. Sometimes Mickey would hold the can to his mouth for him, an odd way he showed his affection and a form of his own flirting. For some reason, it created a mutual sexual tension between the two of them that ignited the raging fire for the remainder of the night. 

“ _Right Ian?_ ” 

The sudden irritated nag that was Blake’s voice rang in his ear drums. He shut off his daydreams, floating back down to reality. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“Jeez space cadet. Anyone home? How was your day?” Blake questioned. 

“Oh, it was good. Just getting closer on this case. Every piece of information counts.” Ian said proudly. 

“Things are going well?” Omar asked. “I know you can’t spill too many details.” 

Ian nodded. 

_Things are actually going miserably other than the awesome jerk-off sessions I’ve had while thinking of my suspect who also happens to be my ex-boyfriend._

“Yeah. Things are good. Wow, this looks amazing!” He said, quickly attempting to change the subject as he stared at the tofu sizzling on the grill. 

Chris and Omar were Blake’s friends, people he knew from work, but Ian did enjoy their company. They had been together much longer and had been married for over a year. They were kind, interesting people with successful careers and a beautiful home, the type of people Blake always said Ian needed to “associate with.” 

Ian sat down and ate a few bites of tofu, unimpressed with the dish itself. He picked at some of the broccoli that Omar had made, but it was coated in a weird-tasting sauce. Blake and Chris chatted about software engineering errors, something Ian knew nothing about, but Blake seemed to be having the time of his life. He was down-right enjoying himself. He was actually satisfied sitting at a table with coworkers, talking about shit they did at work while eating flavorless putty and sipping on rotten grapes. 

Ian helped himself to more of Omar’s fancy “Blake-approved” beer even though the taste was horrendous. It would have to make do. 

“...Is someone’s phone ringing?” Chris asked mid-sentence. 

Ian’s stomach liquified and fizzed as he recognized the chime. He shot out of his seat, his fork flinging off the table in the process. 

“Wow, Ian.” Blake snarled. 

He ignored him, darting back to the kitchen and scrambling for his phone on the counter. He picked it up, reading the caller I.D and breaking into an immediate sweat. 

Before another second he was already outside on the front porch, violently sliding the bar on the screen to answer. 

“Julie, my friend. Thanks so much for—” 

“Cut the shit, Gallagher. It’s 7PM, CSI starts in 20. Julio Dominguez is your guy. Scanned and ran a check. Criminal background up the yang. Been in and out of prison since Dahmer—” 

“It’s not Mickey.” 

“Excuse me?” Julie asked, clearly agitated. 

“Will you send me those documents?” Ian asked. 

“Already put them on your desk. Snuck in there just before Jerry did the night clean.” She responded, sounding proud. 

“So it’s locked now?” 

“What?” 

“My office. It’s locked now?” He repeated.

“Yeah? Jerry closes up at 7:30. You know this. Anyway, coffee for two weeks. Venti hazelnut, 7 pumps, add whip.” 

“Right. Thank you-” 

Julie already hung up. 

Ian did an odd hand motion to celebrate his victory. “I knew you didn’t do it, Mick.” He whispered. He opened the front door to return inside when his phone jangled in his hand again. 

An unknown number flashed on the screen, but he knew who was calling. This time, instead of breaking out into a nervous sweat, he froze in place. He looked around him, walking off the porch and onto the neatly landscaped front lawn. He ducked under a birch tree. 

“Agent Gallagher.” 

He thought he answered in a confident tone, but it came out differently. Like he forgot how to speak and didn’t know how to form syllables. 

“I’ve got other names.” 

It was him. Just hearing his voice on the other side of the line turned Ian’s bones into jelly. 

Other names? Meaning other high-up members to throw under the bus? 

Ian looked behind his back out of habit to make sure no one was watching him respond. 

“Meet me at the Buff in 20.” 

Ian stuttered. “20 minutes? Can I meet you in an hour or so—” 

“You’re not here in 20 you wasted your fuckin’ time.” 

The call ended. 

“Fuck,” He said, staring down at his phone. He had to act fast. He wanted to stop by the office to pick up the test result copies, but he would have to do it after. 

He dashed back inside the house and into the dining room. Blake was still laughing joyfully with Chris. He nudged him on the arm. He looked up at him as if he was rudely interrupting. 

“Sorry babe,” He began, looking sorrowful. “I got a call. I’ve got to get to the scene.” 

Blake huffed, rolling his eyes and sipping his wine. “Right now?” 

Ian nodded. “Yeah. Sorry guys. Dinner was delicious—” 

“Don’t worry, man. Duty calls.” Chris smiled at him. 

\--- 

Ian kept glancing in the rearview mirror on his way to the club, staring at his reflection. The last thing he wanted to do was show up at the joint looking like a fed. He didn’t have time to go home and change clothes, so he did the best he could in a short amount of time. He removed his grey blazer, tossing it in the backseat and unbuttoned his dress shirt to reveal a part of his chest. He ruffled his hair a bit, trying to resemble an innocent guy coming to the strip club to enjoy some dances after a long day at the office. 

As he was slowly approaching his destination, Ian’s stomach was in literal knots, twisting annoyingly as he was only minutes away from seeing Mickey face-to-face. 

After a few more anxious moments, he finally pulled up to the Buff and Stuff, taking a parking spot in the back near the alley. He turned off the engine, taking one more glance in the mirror and exhaling a deep, calming breath. 

He remained collected on the outside, walking up to the front door and entering the club calmly, but on the inside, he thought his heart might fall out his ass. 

He was surprised to see the place mostly empty, but then he remembered it was a Tuesday night, after all. 

He immediately spotted Mickey, sticking out like a sore thumb at the last seat on the bar and Ian’s breathing began to shorten as if he might hyperventilate. He looked especially attractive. Maybe it was the glow of the stage lighting beaming down on him like some kind of an aesthetic aura. Or, maybe he just looked sexy as hell... 

He was wearing a purple flannel top with the sleeves cut off, dark washed jeans, and that same shiny silver chain laid perfectly around his neck. He looked enticing, like a meal Ian wanted to devour, and he didn’t understand there wasn’t a crowd of desperate men swarming him for a taste. 

He took in another heavy breath and found a seat beside him at the bar... 

\--- 

Mickey saw the bright orange hair in the corner of his eye. His skin became hot as he realized Ian was sitting next to him. Without a word he slid a shot of liquor his way, urging him to drink it. 

“I’m doing well, thanks for asking.” Ian said, obviously out of sarcasm. 

“I don’t give a fuck how you’re doing,” Mickey snapped. “If I did, I would have asked.” 

“Still just as charming as you’ve always been.” He lifted the glass Mickey slid to him, studying its contents. “What’s this?” 

“Jimador. Drink it.” He demanded, downing his own. 

“The cartel has really rubbed off on you, hasn’t it?” Ian chuckled. 

Mickey flipped him off. 

Ian leaned closer to be heard over the music. “You didn’t invite me here just to drink with you.” 

“Maybe I did, Gallagher.” Mickey licked his lips, winking playfully. He enjoyed flirtatiously teasing him. Now that he was able to get a good look at him, he took it all in. The tussled hair, the chest fuzz peeking through the crease of his open shirt. He was still so, so beautiful. 

Ian’s toned dropped suddenly, shifting the whole mood of the conversation. “You said you got names.” 

Mickey’s lustful thoughts dissipated completely as he was reminded of the fate of his future. 

“You’re fuckin’ insane if you think I’m saying shit about it here,” Mickey stated, flagging down the bartender. “I shouldn’t even be seen with you. We’re getting drunk first.” 

He felt Ian lean in even closer, close enough he could feel his warm breath on his neck... 

“So, you did want to drink with me then.” 

Mickey looked at him, an absurd expression on his face while Ian grinned, obviously pleased with himself. 

“Whatever makes you feel better, Pig.” Mickey shrugged. 

In fact, he did want to drink with Ian. He did want to get absolutely piss drunk with him and just hangout, even under the current circumstances. Of course, he would never admit it... He knew Ian just wanted answers to solve his case and work his way up the ladder, but maybe, he didn’t. Maybe he wanted escape from his FBI job, at least for one day. Maybe he wanted to _be around him too._

After several rounds of drinks, Mickey was starting to feel a buzz and Ian’s cheeks were the color of his hair. They didn’t exchange anymore conversation until Mickey got up from his seat after paying the tab. 

“Let’s roll.” He ordered. 

“Where are we going?” Ian asked as he felt him follow close behind him. 

“Somewhere we can talk alone.”  
Mickey couldn’t believe he was actually leaving with Ian to go _talk_ somewhere, even though the subject of conversation wasn’t particularly what he had in mind. 

They stepped out to the parking lot where he blankly stared at the rows of cars. 

“Alright, where’s your wheels?” 

Ian laughed. “We can’t take my car. It’s a company car.” 

“So fuckin’ what? I’m the top lead in your case, aren’t I?” Mickey pressed. “You’re supposed to drive me around town. Take me out to ice cream… Get me to confess over fuckin’ Rocky Road.” 

He watched Ian shrug, glaring into the distance like he couldn’t keep his focus. “Maybe I could, if it was cookies and cream.” He winked. 

Mickey paused, gazing at him with heavy eyes, trying not to express his inner-shock. 

He remembered his favorite ice cream flavor _after all these fucking years?_

“It’s right here.” Ian said suddenly, pointing to a dark SVU on their left. He watched as he tried to retrieve his keys from his pocket, dropping them twice before he finally got ahold of them. 

“Oh yeah. This is the car you stalk me in.” Mickey teased, analyzing the shiny rims of the 2029 Chevy Tahoe. He looked over the top of the car. “Sun roof? Damn. They give you a private jet too?” 

“You get the private jet when you bust a high crime drug ring.” Ian joked, opening the driver’s door. 

“Aye,” Mickey looked at him. “You sure you’re okay to drive?” 

“Yeah, why?” Ian asked, looking confused. 

“I don’t know,” He shrugged. “You look pretty boozed up.” 

Ian rolled his lips, dismissing his concerns. “I’m fine. I do this all the time.” 

“In a company car?” Mickey asked firmly. 

“I work for the FBI. Driving intoxicated is the least of my worries.” 

He couldn’t argue with that. He got in the car, immediately fooling with the touch-screen and scanning through radio stations. 

“Don’t start fucking with all my shit.” Ian grumbled. 

“Oh spare me.” Mickey scoffed. 

He settled on 95.1, the local rock station which was playing Zero by The Smashing Pumpkins. He bobbed his head to the music, tapping his knee with the rhythm. 

The drive itself was slightly awkward considering they didn’t exchange any more conversation amongst each other. Mickey didn’t know what to say. Closer by Nine Inch Nails came on and Mickey felt his whole face heat up as he nearly died of embarrassment. He didn’t know what would be more uncomfortable: listening to the song and pushing through it or turning off the radio altogether. 

There was a vivid memory stuck in Mickey’s mind... 

Terry was in jail for another probation violation, Mandy was off with Kenyatta somewhere, and all his brothers were gone to a gun-show in Indiana so he and Ian had the place to themselves. He remembered Ian brought over a duffle bag full of clothes for the weekend, and they were both fucking ecstatic to spend time alone together. 

On the first night they already killed a 12 pack of Old Style, and lust seemed to have taken them away. Ian had him bent over his bed, railing the shit out of him while the words “I want to fuck you like an animal” came blasting through his bedroom speakers. Mickey turned back slightly, unable to hide a grin as he saw Ian smiling back. 

He wondered if Ian remembered it. 

He must have considering he sped into a parking spot as fast as possible, shutting off the car quickly to avoid the song from playing any further. 

Mickey looked out the window before exiting the car. 

“I should have fuckin’ known.” He muttered once he realized they were back at the dugouts. 

Ian shrugged. “It’s the only place I could think of.” 

The two of them walked across the field and into the fenced-in dugout, Mickey leaned against the fence, crossing his arms and huffing impatiently before he spoke. 

“Arturo Dominguez, Hector Garabay, Miguel Herna—” 

“Wait a second,” Ian interupted. “Pump the breaks. Who are these people?” 

“Hot members. Active members.” He confirmed. 

He watched Ian’s face change. “And they’re in the Solano cartel?” 

He paused, biting his lip. “No, but they’ve done work with—” 

“Then save your breath.” Ian said flatly, waving a hand in the air. “The feds and DEA could give a shit less about these outside men. They want the ringleader of the circus. We’ve been chasing down false leads for years.” 

“Well I don’t know what the fuck you want from me then.” Mickey growled, becoming frustrated. 

“You know what I want.” Ian stated, taking a seat at the bench and staring up at him, his green eyes shining in the glow of the obnoxiously bright streetlight. “Turn him over, Mickey. Now is your chance.” 

Hearing Ian say his name again made his knees weak. He watched him pull out the same whiskey bottle he had from their encounter outside of the Buff last week. Ian took a swig before passing it over to him. 

“A lot of fuckin’ memories here, man.” 

Mickey chugged a few gulps, belching loudly afterwards. 

Ian nodded in agreement. “No kidding.” 

A brief, comfortable silence passed before Mickey spoke again. 

“You ever think this is where we’d be?” He asked, feeling the full effects of the whiskey now. 

Ian cleared his throat after taking a few more pulls off the bottle. “What? Me, a fed, and you, a criminal?” 

He sniffled, dragging his foot in the sand underneath them. “Fuckin’ crazy, right?” 

They continued drinking for a few more minutes, and that strange, awkward feeling between them began to wear off. The nostalgia Mickey felt being at the dugout with Ian and sharing a bottle of liquor together was almost eerie. 

Ian spoke, suddenly breaking the peaceful pause. 

“Remember that one time Lip and Mandy got in that huge fucking fight and she stole all his weed? I acted like I didn’t know shit about it, but all three of us came here and smoked it.” 

He burst out in laughter. “Yeah. Fuck that was a long time ago. How is Lip?” 

Ian sighed, now dragging his feet in the sand also. “I don’t know. I heard he started drinking again, but I haven’t talked to him in about eight years now.” 

Mickey, surprised, turned towards him. “How come?” 

"I haven’t had contact with my family since I joined the FBI.” 

“Why the fuck now? What about Carl? Fiona? Liam? Debbie?” 

Ian was shaking his head, a weary expression on his face. “None of them. They’re all criminals. Fiona is a felon—” 

“ _Criminals?_ ” Mickey was in disbelief from what he was hearing. “That’s a joke, right?” 

He didn’t meet his eyes. “I work in a crime preventive field.” 

Mickey didn’t comment. He just sat in silence, staring at the ground, drinking whiskey and thinking about how he actually cut off ties with his own _family_. 

It wasn’t until he went for another sip of the whiskey when he realized the entire bottle was gone. He glanced over at Ian who looked extremely inebriated. He was sort of slouching to one side, his eyes glazed over and drooping. Mickey retrieved his cigarette pack in his pocket, pulling out a smoke and lighting up. 

“Give me one.” Ian ordered, holding out his palm. 

He gave him a puzzled look before he stuck the smoke between his lips and leaned in, signaling for him to light it. 

He hesitated, shaking as he brought the lighter to his mouth. This was the closest Mickey had been to Ian Gallagher in over 12 years and he smelled just like he used to. The pheromones seeped out of him, entering his sinuses and filling his head with more familiar memories. 

The cigarette ignited and Ian took a long, steady drag, exhaling the smoke into the warm evening air. 

“Woah,” He breathed, closing his eyes. “That gave me a head rush.” 

“Pussy.” Mickey chuckled. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, noting the time. “It’s getting late. We better dip.” 

Ian didn’t respond. Instead he got up to his feet with much struggle, trying to find his balance. He staggered across the field, finally getting to the car. Mickey walked close behind him to make sure he didn’t fall on his face. 

Not that he cared. 

Ian approached the driver’s side door, fumbling for his keys when Mickey snatched them from his hands. “Easy there, Agent Firecrotch. I’m diriving.” 

“No, you’re not!" He cried, his cheeks still visibly flushed. 

“You’re way more likely to wreck your expensive work car than me right now. Get in.” 

Before Ian could move, Mickey watched him heave a few times before he kneeled down, grabbing his gut and puking all over the gravel. 

He jumped to his side instantly, making sure he aimed his projectile vomiting away from his shoes. It didn’t faze him though; he had helped Ian deal with a drunken flu numerous times throughout the years. After several minutes, he seemed to get ahold of himself, but as soon as he stood on his feet and felt gravity’s pull, he tipped towards Mickey, his entire weight falling onto him. Luckily, he caught him before he hit the ground. 

“Jesus Christ, Ian.” 

He held his tall, thick body in his arms; one cradled around his shoulders and the other around his waist. He forgot what it was like to hold him. 

He would hold him all night if he could. 

Ian leaned on him for support, clearing his throat of any access vomit. When he was through, he wrapped his arms gently around Mickey. 

“I didn’t want to leave you.” 

The words that left Ian’s mouth made Mickey’s heart race into oblivion. His breathing slowed and he tried his hardest to ignore the tickling chills that rapidly climbed up his spine. 

“I’m serious.” He said sternly. He balanced a little better as he rested his hand on his chest. 

Mickey rolled his eyes knowing it was just the alcohol talking. “Okay, come on drunky.” He went to hang his arm over his shoulder and drag him into the car when Ian stopped him, tugging on his shirt. 

“Hey. Look at me.” He demanded, not letting Mickey pull him any further. 

He gave up. He sighed, staring into his drowsy green eyes reluctantly. “What?” 

“I didn’t want to leave you, Mick.” 

_Mick._

The nickname rang in his ears like a harmonious lullaby. 

He felt himself getting worked up, a grudging anger rising in his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing and not lose his temper. He had so much to say, so many feelings to pour out to him, but it was pointless. 

“I loved you.” 

Now he thought _he_ was going to lose his balance. 

“I know you did.” He looked back at him, an intense expression on his face as he spoke with honesty. He saw Ian smile for a split second before he bent over to dry heave again. 

He finally got him in the passenger’s seat, hooking on his seat belt then hopping in the driver’s seat. 

“What’s your address? I’ll take you home and then walk back.” Mickey insisted, periodically glancing over at Ian to make sure he wasn’t starting to yack again. 

He began shaking his head and moving his hands violently. “No, no, no. Your house.” 

“Hell no.” Mickey spouted. 

Ian refused to give him his address, so he didn’t have a choice but to drive to his apartment. It’s not like he was just going to leave him on the side of the street. 

When they arrived, Ian was already passed out with his head against the window, a puddle of drool collecting on his shirt. He attempted to wake him so he could walk upstairs but he was in a deep, drunken coma. 

Mickey had to carry him up to his apartment. 

He shut off the car, stepping out and walking to Ian’s side. He pulled half his body out of the door, then hoisted him over his back, pushing his torso up so it hung behind him. 

Mickey held his breath, grunting as he shut the car door behind him with Ian’s deadweight hanging on him. 

“Fuck, you’re heavier than I remember.” 

He managed to make it to the inside of the building and onto the elevator. A short older woman with rosary beads around her neck stared at Ian’s limp body questionably. He smiled before getting off on his floor, exiting the elevator quickly. 

He struggled to find his key, rummaging through his pocket until he retrieved it, making sure not to drop him on the hallway floor. He unlocked the door and kicked it open, slowly walking over to his bed. Thank god he cleaned up the place earlier that day. He carefully laid Ian on the mattress of freshly washed bedding, making sure none of his limbs were hanging off the side. He removed his shoes and pulled a light blanket over him. He froze as he watched him move slightly, turning on his side and nestling into the comforter with a heavy sigh. 

Mickey sat at his kitchen table to catch his breath, watching Ian for a few moments. He looked extremely peaceful, and something about seeing his gorgeous, flawless face resting on his own pillow was insanely surreal. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen it. 

He debated on fixing his position in the hopes of making him more comfortable, but he decided against it. He was looked too content to disrupt. 

He lit up another smoke, sat back in his chair and watched Ian Gallagher sleep for a very, very long time.


	10. The Hermit

There was a loud, pounding hum in Ian’s brain. 

He squinted at the luminous, painfully bright light stabbing his eyeballs. Confused, he lifted his head up, trying to open his eyes enough to see his surroundings. He groaned as the throbbing in his brain became stronger. Finally able to look around he scanned the area, realizing he was... 

in Mickey’s apartment? 

He rubbed his eyes vigorously as he sat up in his bed, trying to ignore the throb booming in his temples. He groaned in agony again. 

“Morning sunshine.” 

Ian was surprised to hear Mickey’s voice. Startled, he glanced up to see him sitting at the kitchen table. He was already showered and dressed with his hair styled, drinking a cup of coffee. Ian wanted to complement him on his appearance, but he decided against it. 

Instead, he tried to remember how he ended up at Mickey’s place, but everything after the dugouts was a blur. 

“What happened last night?” He grumbled, staring at the time on his phone. 6:26AM. Four missed calls and three texts from Blake. 

“Well,” Mickey started, taking a sip from his mug. “We killed a whole bottle of whiskey and you were smashed. You wouldn’t tell me where you lived so I couldn’t take you home. So, here we are.” 

“Shit,” Ian held his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.” 

There was a short pause before Mickey kicked a chair out for him. “Have a seat.” 

Ian stood up, dragging himself over to the table to sit down. “Fuck.” He whined, feeling the full effects of his whiskey hangover. 

“Headache?” 

He nodded and watched as Mickey stood up from the table and fetched a couple of pills from a bottle on the kitchen counter. He returned with a cup of coffee and a small plate of buttered toast. 

“Here,” He said, sliding the plate to him. “Take these. Eat. Drink. You’ll be right as fuckin’ rain.” 

Ian stared up at him. “Thanks.” He smiled. 

He did as Mickey said, ingesting the pills with the coffee and finishing his toast. He was still gazing at him longingly, in awe that he was actually waking up in his own home. 

“Where did you sleep?” He asked, blatantly curious. 

Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed in offense, and he suddenly regretted his question. 

“On the couch.” He answered. “What, you think I laid next to you and groped you in your sleep or something?” 

“No!” Ian denied, ignoring his headache as he became theatrical. “I was just... wondering.” 

Now that the tension in the room was undeniably uncomfortable, Ian finished his coffee in silence. 

He thought about how ironic it was that less than a month ago he was knocking on Mickey’s door for answers to the murder of Carlos De Santo Torres, sitting at the very same kitchen table. 

Murder. The cartel. _Finnigan_. 

“The DNA results!” Ian shouted, shooting up from his seat, causing his chair to fall behind him. 

“Jesus!” Mickey yelled. 

Ian grabbed his phone from his pocket. Larsen hadn’t called yet. “I have to go.” 

He panicked now, gathering his things and sipping his last few drips of coffee frantically. 

“Everything alright?” Mickey asked, sounding a bit concerned 

“Uhm. Yeah. Everything is fine. I’m just late for work. Thanks for the breakfast.” He gave him a weak smile. 

“Maybe you should stick to your fuckin’ wine.” 

Mickey threw the Tahoe keys at him. Ian headed for the door, about to walk out of his apartment when he gazed at him. “Really, Mick. Thank you. Will you text me later?” 

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to say it, but the words seemed to pour out of his mouth with ease, and he felt relieved when he witnessed Mickey’s gleaming grin. He bit his lip, clearly trying to hide it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Get to fuckin’ work.” He said, avoiding his eyes as he smiled into his coffee cup. “Oh, hey Gallagher...” 

Ian whipped around so fast he felt a gust of wind from his body. “Yeah?” 

He pointed to him while his fist remained gripped around his mug. “Call your fuckin’ family.” 

Ian’s heart fluttered in his chest and he felt that he might faint. He didn’t say anything back to Mickey, but he felt he didn’t need to. He left his apartment that morning feeling awfully lightheaded, and it wasn’t from the hangover... 

\--- 

Ian arrived at the office 15 minutes after leaving Mickey’s. 

The building itself didn’t open until seven, which was usually when each department started their operating hours, so he was slightly early, but he _had_ to get in there. He parked the Tahoe and bolted to the locked entrance doors. He cupped his hands around his forehead, pressing into the glass and stared inside, hoping someone was around to let him in. 

It was still dark with no lights on yet, and difficult to see inside. He leaned on the side of the building, waiting for the first person to show. His legs were shaking with anticipation. 

He needed those results in his hands. 

After several minutes of waiting, he suddenly heard the door handles jingle and open. Ian was stunned to see Jerry coming out of the doors, just when he needed him. 

“Jerry!” Ian exasperated. 

He looked up from the door, glaring at him. “Ian. Damn, you look rough as hell, my friend. You get into some shenanigans last night? What the hell are you doing here so early?” 

“Oh just... coming in to get a few reports done.” He lied as he squeezed through Jerry’s large, towering body and into the door. 

Without another word he ran to the idle escalator, bolting up it and running to his office. He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. He unlocked his office door, swinging it open and lunging to his desk. There, in perfect, pristine condition was the original DNA document. Ian had seen thousands of these throughout his career, but none that made him feel such a sense relief. He scanned a few paragraphs. 

_**These results reflect the accuracy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s forensics team and DNA laboratory analysts. The following states that the hair follicle provided by Agent Ian C. Gallagher, badge #654 are a 99.93% match to suspect **Julio Eduardo Dominguez.**** _

Further down the page were a few graphs and statistics which he didn’t need to review. He had all the information he needed. 

It was a done deal. Mickey didn’t kill Duke Finnigan and he had the results to prove it. Feeling relieved, Ian got up from his desk, opening the blinds to let some natural light in and glancing at his reflection. Jerry was right; he did look rough. He made his way out to the hallway, brewing a cup from the Kuerig and stopping in the bathroom to clean up a bit. He wet his hair and fixed his clothes to his best ability, knowing he was overdue for a shower. 

He reached for his phone, dialing Blake, preparing for a bitching rant. 

It rang once. 

“Hello? Where in the hell were you last night?” 

Ian put on an apologetic tone. “Hey, babe. I’m so sorry. I got caught up with a suspect and stayed late at the precinct for questioning. I ended up falling asleep at my desk—” 

“Whatever, Ian. Save the excuses.” 

Blake hung up the call, and Ian couldn’t be more grateful. He had too much on his mind to deal with his nagging boyfriend. 

He grabbed his hot cup of drip coffee and returned to his desk. He had a few things to work on, including a draft of his case notes he wanted to type out. He was settling in, taking his first sip of coffee, when out of nowhere his office door swung open. 

It was Larsen, who looked extremely baffled to find him there. Ian shuffled around some papers on his desk, quickly concealing the forensic results from his desk. 

“Oh.” He stuttered, looking down at a sheet of paper he was holding. “Gallagher. You’re here. I just... wanted to have a quick conversation with you.” 

Ian looked at him skeptically before he signaled him to sit down. 

“Thanks for proceeding with the Finnigan investigation on such short notice last night.” 

_Cut the bullshit..._ He thought to himself. 

He forced a smile. “My pleasure.” 

“I have the DNA results for hid murder.” 

Ian sat back in his chair and crossed his leg over his knee. He remained relaxed, but inside, his heart was racing like he was in an Olympic marathon. He felt his breathing start to pick up and an anxious chill creep up his spine. He glanced down at the stack of paper on his desk before meeting Larsen’s dark, beety eyes. 

“Do you?” Ian spoke in a condescending tone as his eyes narrowed. 

“Milkovich is our guy.” 

The words his Ian’s chest like a ton of bricks. 

He knew there was corrupt parts of his job. He knew there were times you had to lie and cheat, maybe even steal, even as an FBI agent, but falsely accusing someone of first-degree murder was beyond anything he expected. 

He stared at Agent Larsen, looking through every bit of his lies. 

“You got the physical results?” Ian asked, his tone dry. 

“Yep,” Larsen handed him the piece of paper he was holding. He acted interesting, examining the results which were nearly identical to the ones he had, only one thing was changed: In bold lettering was the name Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. Larsen’s signature was signed at the bottom, as if to confirm it. 

“Wow,” Ian nodded his headed slowly, in total disbelief. “You got these fast. Real fast.” 

Larsen smiled. “Just in the nick of time.” 

“Just in the nick of time indeed.” Ian tossed the paper on his desk as he no longer felt like speaking. It was clear Larsen had no suspicion that he had obtained the original results first. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The media is all over this shit. The Chicago division is in rankings with Dallas _and_ Phoenix! This is huge! If we bust all our leads, we’ll make headlines for weeks! Salary raises, more money for PTO... We’re gonna win this shit. That promotion is looking good for you, Gallagher. Keep up the good work.” Larsen smiled, a fake, cheap grin. “So, now that we know he’s the perpetrator, I’m going to need you to high-tail this case. It’s time to crack down, Gallagher. Get on the road. Find Milkovich. Make the arrest.” 

Before he could even respond, Larsen had already jumped from his seat and bolted out the door, leaving Ian feeling sick to his stomach. 

He couldn’t bear to sit at his desk any longer. It was agonizing to try and get work done when he was just told the biggest lie in his seven-year career on the force. A lie that went against everything the FBI was about... 

Finally, he left, grabbing only two pieces of paper: the real results and the fake ones. 

He headed straight for the Tahoe, not stopping to chat with anyone like he usually did at the Division. For whatever reason, the desire for nicotine struck him out of nowhere until he remembered he and Mickey had shared a cigarette the night before. 

And goddamnit, after the news he just got, a cigarette sounded like a great fucking idea. 

He headed to the closest corner store, stopping in to buy a pack. Marlboro Red 100’s and a navy blue lighter. 

“Fuck it.” He said to himself as he lit up in the company vehicle. He started driving. He didn’t know where, but it was now that Ian was questioning his career path, and every choice he had made in his life. 

Suddenly, Ian came to an epiphany. 

_Julie._

He had to speak to her. 

He started the engine, the tires screeching as he peeled out of the parking spot. He bobbed through traffic, finally entering the parking lot to the Division again. He parked in a handicapped spot up front, practically jumping out of the car and jogging up to South entrance. He flicked his cigarette after he smoked it to the filter, already wanting another one. 

The South entrance was on the bottom level which led directly to the forensics department. 

He busted through the doors, racing down the brightly lit hallway and approaching the front desk of the lab. At the receiving station was Howard, another forensics analyst he had worked with in the past. 

He smiled. “Howard! Good morning. Say, is Julie around? I know you guys are busy, but I have to talk to her. It’s really important.” 

Howard looked up at him, eyeing him through his frameless clear lenses that sat low on the bridge of his nose. He was an older gentleman who had shaky fingers and was hard of hearing. 

“Oh, Ian. You didn’t hear the news?” 

Ian’s heart sank in an immediate drop. He shook his head, his mind wandering to the worst possible scenario. 

“Julie Holden resigned this morning.” 

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, momentarily relieved it wasn’t the alternative. 

He collected himself slightly before responding. “Resigned? As in quit?” 

Howard nodded. “Mhm, after 18 years in the field. Can you believe that? She just... left. Didn’t say why... Didn’t even take her things.” He turned, pointing to small pile of belongings on a desk in the corner. There were a few coats, a coffee tumbler, several Tupperware bowls, a stack of self-help books and a rhinestone framed picture of her twin sons. 

Ian felt a wave of guilt come over him as he stared at her items, knowing the reason for her sudden departure. 

“Let me come back there, would you?” He asked, nodding toward the door. 

“Agent, this is authorized personnel only—” 

He walked towards the laboratory door, scanning his badge on the censor beside it and letting himself in. 

“Guess I’m authorized personnel.” He stated as he entered, walking towards the desk to gather Julie’s belongings. 

“What are you doing?!” Howard exclaimed, rushing over to him. 

“Bringing Julie her stuff.” Ian replied as he stuffed items into his briefcase. 

“Agent, that’s out of the question. You can’t show up at her—” 

“Do you have her address, by the way?” He asked, ignoring his concerns. 

“I absolutely do not!” He cried, completely dumbfounded. 

“That’s fine. I’ll look it up in the employee database.” 

He walked over to the computer at the front desk, typing in his login information and opening the software. 

“Agent Gallagher! That is absolutely prohibited and against all confidentiality restrictions!” 

Ian stopped typing, looking at him and staring into his wrinkly eye sockets. “Howard, I've learned that when you work for the FBI, nothing is confidential anymore.” 

He tuned out the rest of his banter as he searched for Julie in the system, locating her home address. He scribbled it on a post-it and headed back for his car. 

\--- 

The drive to Julie’s was not far from the Division at all. It was about a 10-minute ride, 15 with traffic, but Ian still managed to smoke two cigarettes on the way. 

It was a small, cozy looking house with a fenced in yard and a sign that read “Home is where the heart is.” Her red Subaru was parked in the driveway. 

He parked the Tahoe on a side street to stay under the radar. He finally approached her front-door cautiously, taking a quick glance behind him before knocking loudly. He stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for an answer as he stared down at the garden pots on the porch overflowing with bright summer flowers. 

He looked up when he heard the metal handle slowly turn. Whoever was behind it pulled it open very carefully. Julie stuck her head out and Ian immediately noticed her hair tied up in a messy bun, much different than the style she wore to work. She looked slightly distressed. 

“ _Ian?_ ” She questioned, a shocked expression on her makeup-free face once she realized who he was. “What the ever-loving fuck are you doing here?!” 

“Julie,” He smiled, holding up his briefcase. “I brought you your things from work.” 

She glanced down at, watching as he pulled them out. She took them eagerly. 

“Thanks,” She said, not meeting his eyes as she began to shut the door on him. “Have a nice day—” 

Ian wedged his foot in the gap. He held up the two test result documents to her face before she could get another word in. 

“I thought you might want to talk about these.” He said calmly. 

She shook her head vigorously, waving her hands in all sorts of directions. 

“I knew it! Nope. Not happening. Goodbye Ian.” 

He leaned in, putting his hand in the door. “Julie! Please! Listen! This is a federal fucking _crime_ —” 

“You don’t think know that? Why do you think I quit, huh?!” She was whispering, looking out onto the street as if someone was watching her. 

“Larsen had you alter those results, didn’t he?” 

Julie looked down at her feet. She pushed open the door, waving him in. “You might as well come inside...” 

She walked away from him and he followed, noticing she was dressed in her pajamas. She offered him to take a seat at her kitchen table. 

“You want anything to drink? Iced tea, coffee—” 

“You got whiskey?” Ian interrupted. 

“Vodka.” 

He nodded. “It’ll do.” 

She reached for a cup on the counter behind her, pouring her own water bottle into it. She slid it over to him. He looked down at it conspicuously. 

“It’s been a long few days.” She shrugged. 

“I get it.” Ian answered, though he was a little concerned that both of them were drinking liquor well before noon. “Look, Julie, this is a huge problem—” 

“I realize that, Gallagher. I am almost over half your age and I’ve been in the forensic field for nearly two decades. I am well aware that this is a _problem_.” She drank from her bottle, wincing as she sipped. 

Ian cleared his throat, readjusting the collar on his shirt. “He’s trying to frame Mickey for a crime he didn’t commit—” 

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up the bus. Who the hell is Mickey?” She asked, obviously puzzled. 

“Mikhailo! He’s trying to frame him for murder!” 

“I know that!” She shouted, her face turning an unflattering shade of burgundy. “But what the hell am I supposed to do?! He made me swear not to say anything!” 

Ian sighed, pressing his fingertips on the bridge of his nose. “So, you quit?” 

“What choice did I have? He said he’d pull my sons out of college, slander my name in the FBI field, get me for employer theft... You name it.” She swigged another sip from her water bottle. 

“Are you fucking serious!? He’s blackmailing you!” Ian claimed, slamming his hand on the table. 

“I know he is! I quit so I could get away from it all, but he said if I tried to run, he’d still track me down.” Tears were beginning to fill in Julie’s eyes as she picked up the framed picture of her sons, and Ian had to look away. “This case is getting media attention. Larsen will do anything to win it.” 

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that...” 

His phone chimed in his pocket and at the very same instant he felt his stomach flutter, vibrating deep in his core. He almost dropped his phone as he scrambled to read the incoming text. His excitement faded as soon as it came when he saw the message was from Blake rather than Mickey. 

He didn’t even read it. 

“Look, Ian. I appreciate you coming here and knowing how wrong this is, but there’s nothing I can do. I’ve been thinking about taking an early retirement anyway—” 

“Bullshit!” Ian stood up from his seat, kicking it out from behind him. “This is not only tampering with police evidence but tampering with FBI evidence after invading a crime forensics lab to manipulate the outcome of a high-profile case! This is more than just fraud! We’re talking prison time! For years!” 

He grabbed the cup from the table and began chugging, not stopping until he finished its contents. He belched, wiping his lips before awkwardly picking his chair back up and scooting it into place. 

“I’m sorry, Julie.” He muttered. “But I’ve got a lot of shit going on with this case, okay? A lot of pressure, more so than ever, and now Agent Larsen has literally altered the results of a crime and I need your help. Not now, maybe not even next week, but eventually I’m going to need your help.” He looked in her eyes earnestly. 

“What if he terminates my boys from school? They just got accepted to the University of Chicago—” 

“Julie, I won’t let that happen." Ian rested his hand on hers, trying to sound as genuine as possible. "He’s a corrupt, good for nothing piece of shit and once the board finds out this happened, he’ll be done for.” 


End file.
